Revenge Is Sweeter Than You Ever Were
by QueenMindi
Summary: He found it strangely comforting to know that they shared the same drive, the same angry fire that quickened their steps when others faltered. In her, he recognized a kindred spirit." --Eldest p.504. Roran/Birgit with a dash of Murtrina.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: This is an AU from the end of Eldest onward, though I am incorporating Brisingr info in later chapters. The only canon info I purposely changed was Birgit's two younger children--they were only mentioned, like, twice (in passing) so I left them out. It was either that or kill them off.

The title is from a song by the Veronicas.

The first 3 chapters are an extended prologue narrating canon events through Birgit's eyes--I felt she needed a little more character development. For those of you who don't remember her, she's a woman of Carvahall (and yes, she is canon) who has a bit of a vendetta against Roran. She is older than him, but (by my estimation) only nine years, which is less than the difference between Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher, so don't tell me my ship is gross kthxbye.

I can't claim all the writing in this story; my co-author, Alzyran, wrote pieces of the second and fourth chapter. Also, small portions of dialogue are quoted directly from the books--though I tried to paraphrase where possible.

This was previously published on Shur'tugal Fan Fiction.

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 1._

[_Prologue_. Several years before the events of Eragon.]

Birgit grew up a farmer girl—daughter of Haberth, the horse breeder, and his wife Mardra. She learned to ride as soon as she learned to walk; she was held steady in the saddle by her father's heavy, muscled hands, and her first steps were into the comforting arms of her auburn-haired mother.

Their home in Therinsford was always full of the warmth of the wood stove and the faint smell of horses. Birgit's mother spent her days embroidering wedding dresses and pretty handkerchiefs for the girls of the town—her embroidery was the best in Therinsford, and her prices affordable. Her husband told her time and time again that she didn't need to work, that his horses brought in enough money to live comfortably, but Mardra smiled saucily back and told him she liked having something to do with her hands. As Birgit grew older, she began to understand that what Mardra really meant was that she didn't want to rely on her husband for everything. She liked proving she could be independent.

It was clear by the time Birgit could talk that she had inherited her mother's spirit (along with her auburn hair and matching temper). Her first word was "no," and her second was "want." (Haberth was secretly offended that it wasn't "da-da.")

When she turned ten, Haberth gave his baby girl one of his favorite horses, a beautiful chestnut mare, to replace the pony she was starting to outgrow. Birgit named the horse Sarhain—the elvish name for the bright Star of the South—and went riding outside the town almost every day.

Haberth worried that she would get in trouble someday, and so gifted her with a sharp little knife to carry at her belt. He also taught her how to slip out of an attacker's hold, and how to kick and punch. Birgit took to it with surprising vigor, and Mardra had to take her to task, informing her that it wasn't nice for a girl to kick her father between the legs and throw him on the floor, even if he told her to.

At twelve, she experienced a period of fascination with people who could write. It seemed like magic to her, writing down symbols and inkblots that _meant_ something. Her father could write a little, mostly numbers and basic runes, to keep account of the horses he'd sold and for how much he'd sold them. He taught Birgit what he knew, as well as the rudiments of arithmetic, and after she'd learned that Birgit's excitement waned. It was _hard_, making the symbols, and got ink everywhere. The scribes that came every year with the Traders must truly be magic, for their pens to skate across the paper quickly, leaving a trail of meaning in their wake. She still envied them, but not enough to pursue further learning.

When Birgit was fourteen, she rode all the way to Carvahall with her father, to visit her grandparents. Her grandfather was a blacksmith, but had recently retired in favor of his brawny apprentice, Horst.

At supper around Grandmother's well-laden table, Birgit met Horst's bride, Elain. She was a small, pretty blonde, and although she seemed very young, she already had one young son and was expecting a second. She seemed entertained by Birgit's forthright manner and, to Birgit's surprise, treated her like an equal and not as a child. When she offered to introduce her to some of the young women of Carvahall, Birgit happily accepted.

The next day, Birgit met Roran Stronghammer for the first time.

He was in town with his mother Marian. Elain led Birgit over to meet her—"Oh, you simply must meet Marian. Look, she's brought her sons with her to town!" As they approached, watching Marian climb off the wagon seat and help the two little boys down, Elain confided, "The smaller one isn't really her son. He's her nephew. It was a big scandal a few years back—her husband's sister left town with some rich noble, and came back dressed up like a princess and with child. She asked Marian to raise the boy and then left, never to be heard from again."

Birgit's eyes widened at the dramatic tale, but she quickly composed her face as Elain hailed Marian.

"Good morning, Marian! This is Birgit, from Therinsford. Birgit, Marian."

Birgit smiled hesitantly at the older woman. Marian's brown eyes crinkled, deepening the lines already forming at the corners. "Pleasure to meet you, Birgit. You must be Mardra's daughter—I'd recognize that hair anywhere. I always envied her, having such beautiful hair."

Birgit blushed. "Thank you," she said shyly.

"These are my sons," Marian said. "Eragon—he's three—and Roran."

Roran looked up at Birgit through a mop of light brown hair and said, "I'm five." He held up his hand with all five fingers splayed, both illustrating his point and displaying extremely dirty palms.

"Oh, dear," said Marian, grasping his wrist. "Roran, darling, I told you not to touch the side of the wagon, it's all muddy from the road."

"Eragon did, too," Roran protested, pointing at the younger boy. Eragon flashed a brilliant grin at Birgit; not only were his hands dirty, but his face was streaked with brown as well.

Birgit smiled to herself. She didn't envy Marian those two—they definitely seemed a handful.

The door to the nearby butcher shop opened, and out toddled a girl who seemed to be the same age as little Eragon, with a head of wild copper curls. Birgit expected a mother to follow her, but the door slammed shut and no one came after. Through the window, she could see a disagreeable-looking man chopping away at something with a gleaming knife—he apparently hadn't noticed the girl's exit, or didn't care.

"That's little Katrina," Elain said softly. "Poor thing. Her mother had a terrible accident when she was just a baby—Sloan, her father, never really got over it."

"But then who looks after her?" Birgit asked, horrified.

"We all pitch in, the women of the town. Sloan sometimes remembers to feed her, but mostly we take turns asking his permission for her to come and play with our children. She's a real sweetheart, polite as anything, so she's really no trouble."

Birgit nodded and watched the little redhead making her way toward them. At that point, Roran and Eragon spotted her and exchanged wicked grins.

_Uh oh_, Birgit thought, as the two boys went to intercept the girl.

As Eragon egged him on with mischievous giggles, Roran grasped a handful of Katrina's bright hair and tugged. "Hi, 'Trina!"

Katrina shrieked, and then started to cry. "Leggo," she howled. "Leggo, bad uggy farm boy!"

"Oh dear," said Elain, and hurried off to intervene.

Birgit, torn between laughing and feeling sorry for Katrina, watched from a distance. She was so lost in thought, she didn't notice the man on horseback riding toward her until he nearly ran her down.

"Hey! Watch where you're going!" she shouted indignantly.

Looking over his shoulder at her, he slowed, then turned and came back toward her. "Sorry 'bout that, miss," he said. "I wasn't watchin' my path."

"Well, next time see that you do," she snapped, still a little shaken.

Then she got a good look at his horse—a white gelding—and paused. "May I ask if you bought that horse from Haberth?" she asked. "He looks familiar."

"Aye, 'smatter of fact I did. I call him Archie." The man squinted at her. "How did you know that?"

"Haberth is my father," Birgit said. "That's one of Windfire's foals, I think."

The man dismounted and looked at her with interest. He was younger than she'd thought at first, perhaps twenty, with dark hair and the beginnings of a beard around his thin mouth. Not handsome, really, but not ugly either. "You must be Birgit, then," he said. "Smart little thing, you are, just like your pa said you were. I'm called Quimby, the brewer."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Birgit.

At that point, Elain hurried over, holding a sniffling Katrina balanced on her hip. "Ah, Mr. Quimby! I see you've met Birgit."

"Aye, I have. 'Tis a pleasure." Quimby smiled at Birgit, and she blushed shyly under his gaze. "Afraid I've business at Morn's, though, so I can't stay an' talk. Hope to see you again, Miss Birgit—and good day, Mistress Elain." He tipped his worn old hat at them and climbed back into Archie's saddle.

As Birgit watched him ride away, Elain nudged her playfully. "I think he liked you, Birgit."

"But I shouted at him," Birgit protested, "and then told him the ancestry of his horse. That was all. He hardly knows me."

"'Tis common knowledge Quimby's looking for a wife, now that he's inherited the brewery," Elain said, setting Katrina down as they started to walk away. "But most of the women his age are already married. Ah, don't look so worried!" she added, laughing. "I was teasing you. Fourteen is too young an age to be looking for a husband, and Quimby knows it."

But Birgit wasn't so sure he did—especially when he showed up at the smithy the next day, looking for her. He said he wanted to talk to Haberth about an infection in Archie's eye, but when Birgit slipped away and found Archie tethered in front of the forge, he looked perfectly fine. And Quimby only spent fifteen minutes or so talking to Haberth, whereas he dawdled in front of the forge finding excuses to keep Birgit there for at least an hour afterward.

Finally, in exasperation, Birgit said, "Quimby, how old are you?"

"Twenty-one this summer. Why d'you ask?"

"I'm fourteen," she said bluntly. She didn't have to explain what she meant.

"Oh." Quimby's bushy eyebrows rose. "_Oh_. Only fourteen? I would have sworn at least sixteen…."

"Well, it's a good thing you didn't bet on it," Birgit said. "If you'll excuse me, I meant to help Elain with the washing half an hour ago." And she headed toward the little house behind the forge, carefully not looking back at him—although she bet his expression would have been priceless.

That was the last Birgit saw of Quimby—at least, for awhile. She went back to Therinsford the next day and settled back into life in her own safe town. She flirted a little with the farmers' sons that came to town every few weeks; they mumbled and blushed at the attentions of the redheaded city girl.

A few months after she turned fifteen, the butcher's son Edwin made Birgit her first offer of marriage. Her parents turned it down right away, of course, insisting that she was too young. When Birgit inquired why Edwin—who was handsome, but unfortunately dumb as a post—would want to marry her, when she was smarter than he was. Mardra patted her cheek and said, "You've gotten pretty, my heart. In a few years, we might even call it beautiful."

Birgit didn't believe her until Mardra produced, from her cedarwood hope chest, a small round looking-glass. Looking at her features—Haberth's sharp hazel eyes, her mother's auburn waves, a straight nose and full mouth—she realized that Mardra was telling the truth. Somehow, Birgit had pictured herself plain and uninteresting, unembellished like her forthright way of speaking. It was a shock to find that she was actually _pretty_.

Perhaps it was her blossoming beauty, then, that brought Quimby back.

He drove into Therinsford one day, almost two years after Birgit's visit to Carvahall, with a wagon of ale casks. He said he was there to sell his ale to Murl, the owner of Therinsford's most popular tavern, but after concluding his business there and stabling his horses, he came straight to Haberth's barns looking for Birgit.

When Haberth stuck his head in the door and called that there was a man here to see her, Birgit rolled her eyes. Another farmer, probably. Since that first proposal, they'd been showing up with increasing frequency. She quickly pinned up her braids (as was proper for a young lady of an age to entertain suitors), smoothed her everyday dress (she'd long since quit dressing up when men came calling), and slipped into her stable boots.

When she got down to the barn and saw who was standing there talking to her father, she nearly turned right back around.

"You?" she said, as usual falling short of tact.

Quimby looked up, did a double take, and stared at her in what was admittedly a rather complimentary manner. He had shaved his beard (recently, she could tell—there was a cut on his cheek) and made an effort at taming his hair with some kind of grease. It was obvious that this was a courting call.

"Miss Birgit," he said, pulling off his hat and bowing a little. "You're even lovelier than I remembered."

Haberth cleared his throat. Birgit disguised her laughter in a coughing fit.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Quimby," she lied, smiling. "My father said you wanted to see me?"

"I wondered if you, er, would like to go riding with me? Your pa says you like riding."

Birgit looked at Haberth, hoping he would say she couldn't; traitor that he was, he nodded assent. "Go ahead, sweet."

"Without a chaperone?" Birgit asked, grasping at straws.

Haberth tried to hide his grin. Luckily, Quimby wasn't watching him. "Birgit, you and I both know you can defend yourself if need be. Go on."

So Birgit found herself roped into riding with Quimby.

He wasn't unpleasant, really; he was a little on the strong, silent side, but sometimes he would make a valiant effort to engage her in conversation. He was smarter, at least, than Edwin (although that really wasn't saying much). A week went by, and each afternoon Quimby was at the barn door, leading Archie and asking for Birgit to come and ride with him. By the eighth day, Birgit resignedly met him at the barn door with Sarhain already saddled.

"Aren't you going to go back to Carvahall?" she asked him on one of their rides.

"Not yet. Murl wants me to stay for awhile and teach him some of my brewing tricks. My ale's better than his," and at this Quimby grinned proudly. "I ain't complaining. More time I get to spend with you, right, little bird?"

"Little bird" was Quimby's nickname for her—according to him, her hair was bright like a robin's breast. Birgit had to admit it wasn't bad, as far as pet names went; one of her suitors had called her "Bridget," which had annoyed her, and another—one who, apparently, had a weakness for poetry—had insisted on calling her "my goddess." That one had gotten old in less than an hour of him using it.

At the end of the second week of his stay in Therinsford, after their daily ride, Quimby boldly asked Birgit permission to kiss her. She let him, and it wasn't as bad as she thought it might be. By the next week, the goodnight peck had escalated into passionate kisses against the door of Sarhain's stall while Haberth was getting something from the house. And on the last week of his stay, at his whispered assurances that he loved her and would certainly come back for her as soon as he saw to his business in Carvahall, Birgit let Quimby make love to her.

After that, he went away, promising that when he returned he'd ask her father for her hand. But he didn't come back. Winter set in, making the roads hard to travel, and Birgit gave up watching at the window and decided to wait for spring.

But it became clear very soon that some things wouldn't wait for spring. Early-morning nausea surprised her one day and kept coming back, and a month after that there was no denying that her belly wasn't as flat as it had been before. Birgit's mother knew what had happened almost before her daughter did, and as soon as the green of spring melted the ice on the roads, Mardra saddled Sarhain and rode alone to Carvahall.

She returned a week later with a chastened Quimby, who nervously asked Birgit for her hand. She accepted, of course—what other choice did she have? They were married two days later in a quiet ceremony performed by the town healer, who wrote their names in a book and told them that the gods would bless their union. There was no wedding feast. Birgit wore her best dress, which was green, not white—her mother had no time to embroider a special wedding gown for her daughter. They moved to Carvahall the day after that; all Birgit brought with her to her new husband's house was her hope chest (lucky she'd been saving those things for this day, because there was no time to think about them now).

It was hard settling in at first; Quimby had been alone in his house since his parents died of fever years back, and he clearly had never been taught to clean up after himself. But Birgit gradually got things in order. Her relationship with her husband was hesitantly friendly; he felt like a stranger still, but he was nice enough and treated her well. She didn't love him, of course—certainly not like Elain adored Horst—but she thought maybe love wasn't really necessary, after all. She did _like_ Quimby well enough, and he sometimes gifted her with sweets or bits of ribbon to tie in her hair or soft blankets to line the wooden cradle in the corner, which was thoughtful of him. She did get a little bored in his house, but her father had let her have Sarhain and she could still ride (but slowly, not to jar the baby). Elain and a few of the other town women invited her over sometimes, to sew quilt pieces together or gossip or give her advice on what to do once the baby came. She wasn't _unhappy_. Surely that was enough, wasn't it?

Six months later, after a horribly difficult labor that had even Gertrude worried, a little son arrived in Quimby's household and promptly took over. Birgit didn't like children, as a rule, but she loved her own from the second she saw him. She named him Nolfavrell, a noble-sounding name she had heard from a storyteller once, and devoted her entire life to him.

She was sixteen years old.


	2. Chapter 2

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 2._

[_Prologue_ cont'd. Taking place during the events of Eldest.]

Thirteen years later, Quimby was murdered.

He left the house that afternoon with a smile for his son, who was chopping firewood at the side of the house, and a pat on the shoulder for his wife—Quimby had never been overly affectionate with her. "See you tonight, Birdy," he said. "I'm off to chat with Morn for awhile—he's just bought my latest batch of ale…."

"And you're going to celebrate by helping him drink it," Birgit finished dryly. She knew Quimby well enough by now. "Be back in time for supper."

"I will," said Quimby.

He wasn't.

She never saw him again. Or at least, she never saw all of him. The soldiers returned his bones in a coffin the size of her jewelry-box. Sick with grief—she may not have loved the man, but he was her _husband_—she opened the lid and found broken white bones, cracked and bitten. It looked like wild animals had been at them.

Morn showed up, hat in hand, and told her the rest of the story. Quimby had been checking the quality of Morn's ale casks, making sure they were sound, when a fight had broken out. One of the soldiers had thrown a pitcher at him and clocked him hard enough in the temple that he'd hit the ground dead as a doornail. A stupid way to die, really—no swords or illness or old age, only a flying pitcher at just the right angle.

The Ra'zac had stolen the body as everyone milled around arguing over who was to blame for the accident. They'd returned only the small coffin of bones.

Nolfavrell caught his mother as she collapsed sobbing on the front steps. He pretended for her sake that he didn't know what was in the box, but once she calmed down enough to go in the house and curl up in Quimby's favorite easy chair, he sneaked out back and buried it.

Birgit stayed awake the whole night, watching the fire burn down to ashes and clutching Quimby's shirt with clenched fists. Her grief was a sharp ache at first, but gradually, as the fire dimmed before her narrowed eyes, the ice of hatred gripped her heart. Quimby's death had been senseless. He was young, barely thirty-five, and a fine citizen with little to blacken his good name in the community. It just wasn't _fair_. It wasn't _right_. And someone was going to have to pay.

It was Roran she chose to bear the blame, and rightfully so in her mind; his cousin-brother, Eragon, had brought the Ra'zac to their town first, and it was Roran for whom they'd come back. Her son worshipped the man; he was seven years Nolfavrell's senior, not handsome in the traditional sense, but with a noble bearing that seemed odd for a farm boy. The death of his father and destruction of his home—not to mention his brief apprenticeship in the Therinsford mill—had lent him a sort of maturity that even Quimby, notorious straight-laced gods-fearing man that he was, had lacked at the same age. Tall, broad in the shoulders, with curly brown hair and the beginnings of a beard; a grim smile and sharp eyes. Yes, Roran was her son's role model, and a fitting scapegoat for her own hatred.

She wished Nolfavrell wouldn't insist on being part of the older men's discussions and war councils. It worried her, and rightfully so—he was just thirteen, skinny and gawky, still growing into his full height. Dark-haired like his pa with his mother's solemn hazel eyes. During the first battle, he killed a man, squeezing his eyes shut as he stabbed and stabbed and cried. Horst's son delivered him into his mother's arms with a reproving look, as if she could have stopped him fighting.

She let him cry on her shoulder, glaring defiantly over his head at Roran and the other men smeared in blood, and found she took a perverse joy in the deaths of the soldiers that lay sprawled on the battleground. They killed Quimby. They _deserved_ to die. What was more, she wanted to kill the others herself. The vehemence with which she spoke against the soldiers surprised her. Besides her father's brief self-defense lessons, she hadn't raised her hand to hurt another person before. It wasn't, after all, ladylike.

Ladylike be damned. If Carvahall went to war, Birgit went to war.

The days passed in a blur. Carvahall had become a fortress; trees were cut and placed as a crude barrier around the town. Birgit let Nolfavrell work with the older men and set herself to boarding up the windows of Quimby's house with a hammer and rusty nails.

"Birgit."

She half-turned; it was Roran. The hammer he'd taken to fighting with was hung through his belt, and his arms were folded across his chest.

He wanted her to help him, as it turned out. As she stood with an apron pocket full of nails and tapped her hammer against her palm, he described his plan of digging trenches around the town for further protection. When she inquired the point of his explanation, he told her he wanted her in charge of it.

That was unexpected.

"Why?" she asked, and he told her—so ironic, she almost laughed—he trusted her because she hated the Ra'zac just as much as he did. He had a point, but there was no use his laboring under the illusion that they were on the same side. So she made certain he knew; informed him that it was his fault Quimby was dead, and that she wasn't about to forget it.

She walked away without waiting for his answer. Finding herself still holding the hammer, she dropped it in the grass and went to find Elain. Pregnant or no, the woman was at least on speaking terms with everyone in the town.

There were, Birgit found, a _lot _of women and children in Carvahall. After she and Elain had gathered them together, she found them all shovels and set them working in a line. When they complained of the ground being hard, she went and got Sarhain—who was by now a very old horse—and put her to work plowing the ground to be dug. The line of diggers went to it with a will, and Sarhain, with a long-suffering air, dragged the plow off in a meandering path to the nearest clump of grass.

Not wanting to seem slack, Birgit rolled up her sleeves, got a bucket, and went back and forth down the line, holding the dipper for anyone who got thirsty.

One girl wasn't working. She followed the line of the girl's stare and saw Nolfavrell a few yards away, muscles straining as he helped three bigger men lift a branch. Birgit rolled her eyes and snapped, "Janna, let me see that shovel moving!" The girl in question blushed and looked down guiltily.

At the end of the line, Roran was waiting for her. "I'm impressed," he said, eyeing her crew of diggers.

Birgit was suddenly aware of her sweaty face and straggling hair. Brushing back an auburn strand and keeping her eyes on her bucket, she explained that they'd plowed it first so it was easier going.

His next question, to her surprise, was whether he could help. She pointed him to the tool supply and turned away, but not before she caught Roran glancing at Katrina. That would explain it, then. She smiled to herself, then covered it up by scratching her nose, remembering a curly-headed little boy whose dirty fingers had yanked those pretty copper ringlets. She'd heard rumors that the two were courting in secret—_bet that makes Sloan pleased as punch_. He certainly didn't look very happy, attacking the earth like it was the Ra'zac under his feet.

In the next battle, a child of ten—Elmund—was killed. At the meeting following that battle, Roran proposed a dangerous idea: sending the weaker townspeople and the children into the Spine. It was admirable, his wanting to save the children; but it was also cowardly, and Birgit refused flatly to go along with it. Her bloodlust was not satisfied, and would not be until the Ra'zac were dead and burned. However, she sent Nolfavrell with the party, wanting above all other things to keep him safe while she avenged his father.

It was worth it, going to see them off. While there, she witnessed the truth of Roran's involvement with Katrina—they were engaged, and without Sloan's permission at that! She was darkly amused at the drama that unfolded before the entire crowd; on one hand, Katrina's father (half mad, it must be confessed, but still her _father_), and on the other, the passionate gaze of Roran. Birgit knew Katrina's decision before she made it—it was the same that any young girl in love would make.

Not that Birgit knew; she'd never been a young girl in love. But it was quite obvious that when one was in love, one's heart ruled absolutely over one's sense of propriety, duty, piety, morality, and all other things that should, in Birgit's mind, come first.

Finally, after the scene had caused hours of delay, they set off. Birgit went with them as far as the falls, then hugged Nolfavrell (to his manly embarrassment) and bade him goodbye. She wondered what Roran had been saying to him a moment ago—the two were thick as thieves these days—but didn't dare ask because Roran was still in earshot. She didn't look back as he went on ahead and she turned back to Carvahall.

Spending the night alone, for the first time in many years, was unsettling to Birgit. She lay in the loft bed she'd shared with Quimby, inhaling his familiar scent and feeling cold and abandoned. After a few hours of staring at the ceiling, she slid out of bed and tiptoed across the cold floor to Nolfavrell's bed. His nightshirt was still folded neatly under his pillow; she took it back to bed with her and held it to her chest.

Some time after midnight, she heard shouting and peered through a crack in the boarded-up window. There were torches bobbing around by the smithy—something was happening.

Birgit gave up on sleep and got dressed. Her shawl could hardly keep out the cold as she hurried toward the center of the noise: Horst's house.

Elain was bustling around in a white nightdress and her husband's overcoat, looking a bit wild around the eyes. "Oh, Birgit, could you help me?" she asked, handing Birgit a bowl of heated water. "There's been an attack—they took Katrina. Roran's gone crazy and charged off to save her without even putting a shirt on first, the fool…he'll catch his death, and with that horrible wound too. I worry about that boy. He pretends to be in control, but when it comes to Katrina, he's too in love with her to think straight."

Birgit set the bowl down on the kitchen table and took rags from Elain, helping her wash the bloodstains from them. "He is a fool," she agreed. "A loyal and a fierce one, too. I can't think of anyone I'd rather hate."

Elain sighed. "You really ought not to blame him."

"Someone must take the blame." Birgit shrugged and wrung blood-tinted water out of the rag.

"He's got a good heart," Elain said, sitting heavily in a chair. "Reckless, but loyal. I'm sure he'll make Katrina a fine husband." Then her face tightened. "Assuming he gets her back first. Poor girl. I don't understand why those foul Ra'zac took her away and left Roran."

But the next morning, it was all over town: Sloan had killed the watchman and betrayed his own daughter to the Ra'zac. Eyebrows were raised—Sloan was unpleasant, certainly, and a little crazy, but would he really do that to Katrina?

The answer, clearly, was yes. And favor tipped to the side of Katrina and Roran's forbidden love—suddenly, those who had been scandalized yesterday were sympathetic, and heard to speak harshly of the cruel father who was set on keeping the lovers apart at any cost.

And Roran….

Roran was _shattered_.

Elain, hurrying down the street to speak to Gertrude, met Birgit returning from bringing the watchmen bread and water and murmured that Roran had spent hours in his room, sobbing loud enough for the whole house to hear. "It's heartbreaking," the blonde said, pity clear in her face. "To see a man like him brought so low…I hope the Ra'zac gnaw Sloan's bones to the marrow for what he's done."

Birgit shuddered at the mention of gnawing bones and excused herself. Unwilling—or perhaps afraid—to go home alone, she instead made her way to the vacant tavern. Tara was dusting the counter, mumbling angrily to herself, and was only too glad to have someone to vent her annoyances upon. This whole affair, she said, was being conducted in a ghastly manner.

"Terribly unprofessional, allowing your town to be ravaged by the King's pet assassins," Birgit said dryly. Tara, immune to sarcasm, agreed wholeheartedly and went on to rant about it for the next half hour.

When Birgit couldn't stand it any longer, she invented something she needed to fetch from home and set off. It was getting dark, but for some reason there were more people in the streets than was usual for this time of night. Normally, everyone would be inside having supper.

Then she heard the low murmur. "Come. Come. Come." It was being repeated in every conversation—and now she realized that everyone was moving in the same direction, toward the center of the town.

Birgit, curious, turned around and followed. As she drew nearer to the town center, she heard a man's voice raised, shouting the same message. "Come. COME!"

Roran. Of course. She shook her head—what was Elain thinking, letting him out? He was clearly mad.

She pushed to the front of the crowd anyway, curious as to what he had to say.

It seemed that all of Carvahall had come at Roran's command—and now they stood, some pitying, some intimidated, some disapproving. Lit by the torchlight, Roran's face was wild. His hair and beard had grown straggly and unkempt; his arm was bound up in a sling, a souvenir of last night's fight. His eyes were the worst—haunted, a fanatical light blazing out of some great emptiness. This was a man who literally had nothing left to lose.

He raised his hand. It was red with his own blood—his fingernails had broken the skin of his palm.

And then he began to speak.

Oh, he _spoke_. There had never been a speech like it in Carvahall. Birgit stood spellbound, believing every word he said. He was more than inspiring—he lit a fire of hope and righteous anger within her. She realized that, although she hated the man, she'd follow him to the end of the earth. She'd probably die doing it—for that matter, it was likely they all would—and it was the stupidest plan she could have imagined, but Roran made it clear it was the _only_ way.

And so, when he stepped down, she was the first to speak in favor.

She watched as several other townsfolk agreed with the plan for one reason or another. Many more heads were nodding. Some stayed aloof, and it was obvious that there would be more than one staying behind, but in the end, Roran convinced most of Carvahall.

That was it, then. They were to leave their home forever—in two days' time.

*******

The journey was, as could be predicted, long and hard.

Birgit bore it with gritted teeth, warming her insides with revenge when hot food wasn't to be had, and giving up whatever she needed to keep Nolfavrell comfortable and alive. She disliked Roran more every day, mostly because he seemed so unconcerned by their surroundings. His mind seemed constantly to be elsewhere. And Birgit had a good idea where—and with whom—it was. Despite all his guarded expressions and brooding silence, it was clear that he thought constantly of Katrina.

After several days traveling against Palancar's frigid winds, the villagers arrived at the small town of Narda, where they had planned to book sea passage for Surda. Birgit watched with gritted teeth as Roran entered the town with the villagers who seemed to be his closest followers. It was frustrating to be seemingly the only one to realize how risky it was to place the village's fate in the Stronghammer's hands. If by some mistake he gave away his identity, they would all fall into the Empire's hands with him.

When Roran returned and announced that the best they could secure was a fleet of barges, her irritation got the best of her. Though most of the village was concerned about exposure, Birgit saw another concern: how in the world did Roran plan to pay for this? She knew that she and Nolfavrell could survive any weather the gods threw at them, but what he was proposing would likely doom them to starvation.

His response did little to assuage her growing anger against him. Standing, the Stronghammer looked over at her with a frown on his ragged face.

"It's this or walk."

The short trip down the coast to Teirm was tolerable, and Birgit was pleasantly surprised when Roran requested that she and Nolfavrell accompany him into the city. She wanted to keep herself as close to him as possible. If he was going to be making decisions for the entire village, Roran might as well have someone along who might be able to bring his thoughts away from Katrina.

Besides, if she was ever going to make him pay for Quimby's death, Birgit knew she would have to keep him alive at least all the way to Surda.

The city was overwhelming and strange; maybe Birgit was just paranoid from months of being on the run, but it felt like everyone was staring at them. She tried to keep her wits about her, telling herself that even if Roran was recognized, a city of this size would make it easy to get away. All they needed to do was split up and mingle with the crowd.

She noticed her son staring at something, and when she followed his gaze, she found that Roran, too, was longingly eyeing a great ship down in the harbor. It looked much faster than the barges, and more importantly, big enough for the villagers.

Then reality kicked in. _I don't think so. Hiring passage on that ship for the whole village would ruin us. We have enough problems just finding enough to eat_. When Birgit said as much, Roran sighed and looked away from the harbor—but he still had that look in his eye. He'd gotten hold of an idea, and he wouldn't easily let it go.

In Birgit's opinion, he needed to be beaten over the head with the Rod of Common Sense.

At least he seemed willing enough to give up his daydreams once they were told of Jeod's ship auction. They hurried straight to the man's house, only to be snubbed by a pompous butler and finally let in with, it seemed, utmost reluctance. Birgit was faintly amused by how high-and-mighty this servant thought he was. She hoped the master wouldn't be the same sort of man.

He wasn't, luckily for them. Jeod was a tall, rather paunchy man with gray in his hair and defeat on his brow. He treated them politely enough, although they looked half-wild by now (Birgit longed for an opportunity to wash her hair). But he gave them news they would rather not hear: he was not in a position to sell them any of the things they needed.

He kindly offered to help, and so Roran rattled off a list of things they were looking to purchase. Birgit added a few things he'd forgotten, eyeing Jeod with mistrust. He could be a genuinely nice, helpful person. Or he could be so desperate he was willing to sell them out to the king's men at a moment's notice. She had found so few examples of the former that she couldn't squash her suspicions. He looked much too interested in Roran to be merely helpful. He was subtly encouraging them to speak, hoping they'd slip up and tell him too much….

She was right. Grimly triumphant, Birgit laid her hand on the knife tucked into the waistband of her skirt. Jeod was figuring it out. He knew they wanted to feed a great number of people and were traveling a fair distance. That was too much information for comfort, especially if he went and told someone. Blast Roran for being stupid enough to fall for Jeod's clever manipulations!

It only got worse. Jeod turned his shrewd questions on Nolfavrell, who, being so young, hadn't the wit to fend him off. As soon as he let Gertrude's name slip, Birgit knew they were in trouble. She silenced her son with a look and gripped the knife, tensed and ready to fight her way out the door if it came to that.

Jeod knew Roran's name. Turned out he knew Eragon too, and that crazy storyteller that had disappeared at the same time. Or at least he said he knew them; Birgit was still suspicious of the man. Sharp-witted as he was, he could have recognized Roran and fabricated a tale on the spot, throwing in Eragon to make it more believable. The kid was, after all, the face next to Roran's on the _Wanted_ signs.

Roran believed him, however, and agreed to tell their story, blocking the door so Jeod couldn't get out—and no one else could get in. Not even Jeod's shrew of a wife, who interrupted halfway through shrieking at him. Birgit smothered a smirk—no wonder Jeod looked so careworn and defeated.

Finally the truth (or something resembling it) came out: Jeod was an agent for the Varden. That was unexpectedly fortuitous—rather too good to be true, thought Birgit, still mistrusting.

Not only that, but Eragon was a Dragon Rider now; his dragon's name was Sapphire, or something to that effect. He'd gotten himself in trouble with the Empire somehow—it seemed Galbatorix didn't like other Riders outside his control—and that was the entire reason the Ra'zac had come back to Carvahall: to capture Roran and use him as bait for catching Eragon.

Roran seemed to find this amusing. Birgit gave him an odd look and let him laugh like a lunatic. She could certainly see the humor in it—Eragon the farm boy, just a few years older than her son, a "formidable enemy of the Empire"?

But if Jeod spoke the truth, it truly _was_ Roran's fault the Ra'zac had destroyed Carvahall. They'd come for him alone, no other. If he had gone with them, she could be sitting safe at home by the fire. Briefly she imagined it: Quimby in his easy chair by the fire, Nolfavrell whittling on the hearth rug, and herself sitting calmly in her rocking chair, the barn cat's latest litter of kittens mewing in her lap. She almost missed being a housewife. It'd been boring, but at least she didn't worry about being attacked every minute.

It was Roran's fault she was here now, in Jeod's cold, dim, musty-smelling study, her hand on her knife and her muscles constantly tense.

Irrelevantly she thought, _And those imaginary kittens were _really cute_, too_.

Roran finally shut up laughing and let Jeod get on with his explanations. Birgit had to admit they made a kind of sense. It was hard to believe Jeod had made this all up on the spot.

Roran was belatedly indignant as he realized how Eragon's stupidity had cost them; but then his focus shifted. Jeod had mentioned the Ra'zac, and now his quest to rescue Miss Coppercurls blotted out everything else. Even when Jeod warned him that the Ra'zac's lair was a mountain that no one could climb, the fanatical light in his eyes refused to die out. Birgit rolled her eyes. She'd heard the phrase "blinded by love," and now she saw it come to life in Roran.

At last, Jeod finished spinning his fantastic tale, and Birgit was forced to concede that he was probably telling the truth. It wasn't like they had any better explanation.

Nor did they have a better plan to argue over when Jeod suggested his rather desperate-sounding plan: _steal_ that big ship from the harbor. As if they hadn't committed enough crimes already. But it was the best plan they had. Not to mention Roran was thrilled with it. It was just his sort of thing: stupid, dangerous, and extreme.

Birgit sighed and prayed to the gods that this wouldn't get them killed. Because if Roran wasn't a little more cautious, it would.


	3. Chapter 3

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 3_.

[_Prologue_ cont'd. Taking place during the events of Eldest.]

Birgit walked down the hallway of Jeod's mansion, thinking about the plan and the delicate operation of thievery that lay ahead. She would have to be careful and practical where the others were impetuous and daring; clearly, no one else around here, least of all Roran, had the sense to fill a teacup.

She approached the wide window at the back of the house and saw a figure silhouetted there. It was easy to recognize Roran—the uncut hair curling wildly around his head, the slightly hunched posture, the scarred knuckles gripping the windowsill. Somehow she knew what he was thinking about. Eragon, his Dragon Rider cousin. How strange it was that the dirty-faced kid, tagging along in Roran's shadow, had suddenly become a powerful enemy of the king. Fate obviously had a sense of humor.

She approached him quietly, speaking when she was still several paces back. "Do you hate him?"

He jumped and turned to face her. "Who?"

"Eragon. Do you hate him?"

He looked away, back out the window. "I don't know. I hate him for causing the death of my father, but he's still family and for that I love him…. I suppose that if I didn't need Eragon to save Katrina, I would have nothing to do with him for a long while yet."

Oh, the irony. He had decided to use Eragon to save Katrina, much as Birgit had chosen to use him to help her avenge her husband. "As I need and hate you, Stronghammer," she replied, smiling sardonically.

He made a noise that might have been a laugh. "Aye, we're joined at the hip, aren't we? You have to help me find Eragon in order to avenge Quimby on the Ra'zac." So he knew she was using him. The man wasn't as dumb as he looked.

"And to have my vengeance on you afterward," she reminded him. She wouldn't let him forget it and think they were _friends_.

He met her eyes. "That too."

Moments passed. Neither of them said anything, but there was an understanding between them. Birgit studied his expression and wondered what he was thinking. He was looking back at her with appraisal and something resembling respect.

In that moment, she almost liked him. Almost.

She continued on her walk through the halls, not wanting to rest. Keeping her wits sharp was important, especially dealing with Roran. She had to keep her guard up. She was the voice of practicality in this group of desperate madmen. If she let herself slip, even for a minute, she was sure it would spell their doom.

*******

A day later they were up at dawn, ready to steal themselves a ship.

The city was quiet and dark, but the guards at the harbor were wide awake. Jeod handed them official papers and was allowed into the harbor. There, six men were waiting for them—the dirty, unpleasant sort of sailors that Birgit had so far managed to avoid acquaintance with. They would serve well for their purpose—thieving and piloting a ship—but in all other ways they were disgusting.

They liked Birgit even less than she liked them. A few of them glared suspiciously at her, and one of them had the audacity to call her a "backwoods tramp." Not even to her face, either. He said it to Jeod, as if she wasn't even there.

"Don't talk about her like that," Nolfavrell growled angrily. Birgit could tell he was working himself up to fight these big, brawny louts.

"An' her runt too?" grumbled the sailor, and Nolfavrell tensed up as if to spring at him.

Birgit did not intend to let her son get beat up, but neither did she intend to let the oaf get away with his comments. Dimly, she heard Jeod trying to calm the man down, heard another claiming women were bad luck, but she was focused on drawing her knife from her skirt and calculating the timing of her next move.

She strode toward the first man and kicked him as hard as she could in the crotch. Then she turned to the other one, grabbed him, and pressed the knifeblade to his windpipe.

_Thank you, Father_, she thought, suppressing a smirk of triumph. She'd thought she would never have to use her father's defense lessons, but they were proving more helpful than she'd ever imagined.

Letting the man go, she kept a determinedly straight face as she stepped back to her place. She had to step over the first man, who was rolling around in pain, swearing. "Does anyone else have an objection?"

Nolfavrell whispered, "I didn't know you could do that, Mother!"

The rest of the men eyed her with, Birgit imagined, a little bit of fear. _Bet they've never seen a woman stand up for herself. Hah!_

The men began to get ready, and Jeod nodded to Birgit. This was her cue. Nearby, the oaf, Uthar, and Roran were stripping down—they would be taking a swim under the pier.

And Birgit would be distracting the guards for them.

She sighed and dropped her shawl. Then she pulled the pins out of her hair and dropped them down the front of her blouse for safekeeping. While she was at it, she pulled one sleeve off her shoulder a little. She fluffed her hair—pity she hadn't thought to bring a comb—and glanced at Jeod.

"Well? Do I look enough like a hooker to fool them?"

"Don't growl at them like that," said Jeod, amused, "and you'll do fine."

She set off, boots clacking on the boards beneath her feet. _What would Quimby think, I wonder_, she thought, _if he saw his little Birdy acting the harlot?_

Probably he would have fallen over in shock. Birgit allowed herself a wicked little grin. For once, being widowed was an advantage—she wasn't subject to the control of any man. She had rather missed flirting once she was married. It was so fun to watch the poor farm boys squirm under her advances.

The sentries standing on the ship's deck noticed her right away. "Hey there," one of them yelled. "Whatcha doing out here, miss?"

Birgit was insensibly thrilled at being mistaken for a "miss." "Thought you boys looked lonely," she said, smiling up at them and pushing back a strand of her long auburn hair.

The men came over to lean on the rail, looking down at her. "We ain't supposed to talk to ladies while we're on duty," said the second one.

"Shaddup, Jory, don't be such a stick-in-the-mud," said the first. "I'm Adrian, miss, and this here ugly mug is Jory. What might your name be?"

"Mardra," said Birgit, using her false name.

"Mardra," repeated Adrian. "That's pretty. So what do you—"

Birgit saw two dripping shadows climbing over the rail of the ship. Now she had to make sure to keep the men's attention. She flung back her hair again, smiling winningly.

"—for fun?"

"For fun?" Birgit repeated. "I, er, I like to…cook." It was the only thing she could think of.

"Oh really?" said Jory.

"I'd like to have you cooking _my_ meals after a long day," Adrian said, and winked.

_I'm sure you would_. "Yes, well, I flatter myself I'm a _really good_…cook," Birgit said.

"Mmm." Adrian grinned. "Well, you know, our watch ends pretty soon…if you want, I'll—"

A club swung out of the shadows behind the two sentries. Roran clonked Adrian hard on the head, and Uthar the Oaf knocked out Jory.

Birgit waved at the rest of the group, waiting at the end of the pier. Then she helped Roran and Uthar lower the gangway, and climbed aboard the ship herself.

Then they went below to search out any extra sentries lingering on board. Birgit was lucky enough to find the galley, where the cook and his assistant were snoozing. She tied and gagged the cook without him even waking; the assistant, however, was a light sleeper and woke up as soon as she wrapped the rope around his wrists. He made a lot of commotion, waking up the poor old cook, but in the end she got him down on the floor and sat on him while she tied him up. Loring came in and helped her march the two of them up to the deck, where they were put in a row with the purser, the boatswain, and the two sentries, and kept under careful surveillance.

Jeod, unfortunately, appointed Uthar the Oaf as captain, which meant Birgit had to take orders from him. Typical. He and the other five sailors got the ship ready to sail, while Birgit helped Roran and the others toss the unneeded supplies overboard.

The plan went perfectly well until it got light enough to see. Then someone noticed the villagers coming and sounded the alarm. Then it turned into a battle. As the men flung flaming javelins at the soldiers, Birgit and Gertrude helped the villagers aboard and got them belowdecks as quickly as possible. When the last of the villagers were aboard, Birgit herself went below. She told herself she was needed to organize living quarters for everybody, but in reality she did not want to watch the city burn. _They didn't have to start a fire_, she thought. _Men! Hotheaded as usual, completely disregarding whose house they might be burning down to save their own skins_.

Gertrude was of the same opinion, and she stayed below with Birgit, ordering people about until they were well away from the harbor and the smoke of the fire they'd started was no longer visible.

*******

The rest of the trip was no less miserable than the first part. The only good thing about it was that it was shorter. Birgit spent most of her time up on deck, because if she didn't make herself scarce, Gertrude set her to tending the many, many seasick villagers. It made Birgit sick herself to watch other people vomiting, so she kept away from them when she could.

As long as she kept out of the way, none of the sailors admonished her—though this may have been because they feared she would hurt them. Indeed, Uthar the Oaf kept well away from her; she'd bruised his pride as well as his manhood, showing him up in front of his men.

That first day, around noon, the Ra'zac made an appearance. Birgit watched the men shooting at it and wished fiercely she was able to wield a bow. She almost _wanted_ the creatures to attack so she could sink her knife into them. But strangely, they wouldn't.

It was Gertrude who realized the truth. The Ra'zac were afraid of the ocean. As long as they stayed away from land, the Ra'zac could not touch them. Birgit stowed that piece of information away carefully; it could be useful later.

The Ra'zac never came close enough to attack, nor did Baldor's bow do any lasting damage to them. Birgit was oddly glad. She wished the Ra'zac to continue living only so that she could kill them herself when the time came.

Days later, as they rounded Rathbar's Spur, they picked up pursuers. Empire ships, from the look of them, smaller and faster than the _Dragon Wing._ The men forced Birgit below when the shooting began, and as if that weren't enough, a storm caught the ship, tossing the boat around like a toy. Birgit sat up in her narrow bunk, clinging to the frame as the ship seesawed back and forth crazily. Gertrude extinguished the lantern, afraid it would fall and start a fire, and they sat miserably in the dark. Two other woman, who were sharing the room with them, were bitterly sick, which made Birgit's own stomach heave.

The storm blew itself out two days later, and Birgit climbed back up on deck to find out how things were, pale and light-headed since she was still unable to stomach any food. The sea was calmer, but the Empire's ships were still close behind. She shook her head. _Unless we get rid of them somehow, they'll herd us into a corner and take us prisoner. I hope Longshanks knows what he's doing_.

She stayed on deck for awhile, not wanting to return below to the stink of sickness. The village men were hard at work repairing the damage the storm had done, and listening carefully to their conversation, she learned that a rumor was being passed about that Roran was attempting to sail through something called the Boar's Eye. Nobody really knew what it was, but from the hushed way they said it, it was something dangerous.

The next morning, she woke to the sound of drums; the oarsmen were being employed once more. Hurrying up on deck, she immediately spotted the smudge of mist on the horizon.

"What is _that_?" she murmured.

"That be the Boar's Eye, mistress," said a passing sailor. "A whirlpool."

"What's a whirlpool?" she called after him.

He paused. "You ever seen a cyclone, mistress?"

Birgit hadn't, but she'd heard them described—spinning funnels of air sucking up everything in their path. One of the traders had sworn he'd seen a house ripped from its foundation by a cyclone one time.

"Well, a whirlpool's like a cyclone, only in the water," the sailor said. "If you ain't careful, you'll get sucked right into its belly. And there ain't no way you comin' back out once a whirlpool swallows you."

Birgit clutched the railing, feeling faint again. "Good gods! We're going through _that?_"

"Aye, mistress, and a damn fool idea it is too, beggin' your pardon. Stronghammer and Longshanks, the two of 'em are ravin' mad to try it, if y'ask me."

"A good thing no one asked you, then," said Jeod, coming up behind the sailor. He glared sternly at the man. "You have a job to do. Do it."

"Sir!" said the man hurriedly, and left.

"Mistress Birgit, don't worry about the Boar's Eye," Jeod said, folding his arms. "It's difficult to pass, certainly, but we've planned this carefully. It's all about timing. And we plan to hit it at exactly the right time."

"And if you don't?" she asked.

Jeod shrugged. "Well, we're pulled into the dark depths of the sea and drowned. Simple as that. Pray gods it won't happen. And by the way, I'd appreciate it if you don't repeat that to the others. The fewer people know about this, the better. It wouldn't do to have everyone panicking."

"Of course," Birgit said, laughing rather hysterically.

She went below and tried to sleep, until the faint sound of the Boar's Eye grew louder and became a roar that she could not ignore. The Boar's Eye was clearly visible now, a great thundering hole in the middle of the sea. Birgit shivered. It was like looking into the mouth of hell.

The ship was slowing, and from the reactions of the sailors, this was not a good thing. Determined to help—to _survive_—Birgit hastened down to the oar banks, where she took over for one of the tired men. One of her cabinmates joined her. The woman was still looking green, but her husband was rowing two oars ahead and she was resolved to be just as strong.

It was miserably hard work. Birgit's palms blistered and her back burned. She rested, accepting food and drink from Gertrude, blowing to cool her aching hands and listening worriedly to the ever-louder sound of the Boar's Eye. They had to keep this pace, she knew, or the whirlpool would pull them in. She briefly imagined the ship breaking to pieces in the whirlpool's belly, herself catapulted through the water, broken like a doll as her lungs filled up and she drowned.

She wrapped rags around her blisters and went back to rowing.

Everyone was taking turns at the oars—women, old men, even some of the children. Gertrude and Elain were spared, Elain because of her pregnancy, Gertrude because she was not strong enough. They tended to the exhausted, giving them water and old rags for their blistered hands.

Birgit saw Roran at the oars too—though he was obviously tired, he rowed like a madmen, his hands bleeding. Birgit was glad for his perseverance. It gave her exhausted mind a goal: _I won't let him work harder than me_.

At last it was over. Feeling ill and weak, Birgit climbed back up to the deck one last time. The Boar's Eye was behind them, and their pursuers gone—sucked into the depths of the whirlpool to face the fate Birgit had imagined for herself. She shuddered, momentarily feeling sorry for them.

Then she went back down to her cabin and slept more deeply than she had in weeks.

*******

Birgit was so sore she could hardly move. By the time her muscles quit aching, they were sailing inland, and a few days later they stopped at Dauth and went ashore for a time.

There, they had no need to hide themselves—the city was within the borders of Surda, and safe from the Empire. The governor of the city, Lady Alarice, was impressed with their tale and offered to let them stay. Many families did, but once again Roran convinced many of them to move on, to come with him to fight against the Empire.

For they had heard the news of the Varden's army marching to the Burning Plains, to do battle with the Empire. Roran told them they must fight if they ever expected to live safely in Surda. But he had another motive, Birgit knew; Eragon was certainly going to be fighting in this battle, and Eragon was the key to rescuing Katrina and killing the Ra'zac.

So Birgit agreed to go upriver with Roran. She was forced to row again, though not to exhaustion as before. At least less people were seasick; those with weak stomachs had mostly elected to stay in Dauth, and the motion of the ship was gentler on the river.

As they approached the battle on that final day, she did all she could to help the men prepare for war and wished fervently she herself could fight. Even her own son was preparing—someone had given him a breastplate a size too big for him, and a sword with a worn handle. He was burstingly proud of himself, sure that he would be a great warrior. Birgit wished she could remind him of the soldier he'd killed in Carvahall, how bitterly he'd wept after taking another man's life.

Roran sent Elain belowdecks, and Elain in turn tried to pull Birgit down with her. But Birgit determinedly stayed on deck, wanting to see the enemy herself before descending.

And then the dragon appeared.

It was brilliant blue in color, big as a house, and carrying on its back none other than little Eragon of Carvahall—except it _wasn't_ Eragon, not really. Eragon wasn't unnaturally handsome, like the elves of the old tales. Eragon didn't exude power, or wear that kind of nobleman's clothing.

Eragon was a little boy who got dirty and pulled little girls' hair!

"Birgit, hurry up! It's not safe up there—_oh_," Elain sighed, catching sight of the dragon. "She's so beautiful."

Birgit snorted a laugh. "_She?_"

"I can just _tell_ it's a she, can't you? She's so lovely." Elain gazed up at Eragon and his dragon for a moment more before grasping Birgit's wrist and pulling her below. Birgit wished she could have eavesdropped on Eragon and Roran's reunion. It was bound to be…interesting.

Nolfavrell galloped past, clad in his new armor, heading for the deck. "Mother! Wish me luck," he enthused.

She reached out, but only brushed his shoulder as he passed. "Be careful, son," she warned.

"Of _course_, Mother."

"I love you," Birgit called. She couldn't tell if Nolfavrell heard or not, because he was already climbing up the narrow stairway to the deck.

"It's hard, isn't it, to send a son off to war?" Elain murmured, pressing Birgit's hand.

"Yes," Birgit said softly.

Suddenly Elain winced, clutching Birgit's hand convulsively. "Oh!" She put her other hand to her belly.

Birgit's attention shifted back to the present. "What is it, Elain? Is the baby—?"

Elain groaned. "I think so. It's past its time already, and I had pains this morning too, little ones. Oh, Birgit, I _am_ sorry…."

"Nonsense," said Birgit briskly, guiding Elain into her cabin. "If I worry about you and your baby, I can't worry about Nolfavrell as much. Lie down and I'll get Gertrude."

The following hours flew by as Gertrude and Birgit made Elain as comfortable as possible, cooling her forehead with water and allowing her to clutch their hands in pain. Elain had had four children before (only two of which had survived past infancy), so the birth was not as hard as it might have been.

Birgit found that she _could_ help Elain and worry about her own son at the same time. She was reminded constantly of her own experience with childbirth—all that pain and blood and screaming for the tiny little person she'd held in her arms with Quimby at her side. And now her baby had grown up and was enduring pain and blood and screaming in an entirely different setting…_gods protect him, he's only thirteen_, she thought, twisting a cloth in worry. She prayed she would again be able to hold him in her arms when it was all over.

At last, Elain's tiny daughter was delivered, healthy and red and squalling. Gertrude wrapped the infant in a spare shirt and placed her in her mother's arms, and Elain smiled, smoothing the worry lines in her forehead for a moment.

"What will you name her, dear?" Gertrude said as she washed her hands.

"I hadn't thought," Elain murmured. "It's been such a long journey, and I…."

"Call her Miracle," Birgit suggested, "because it's a miracle we've survived all this time, homeless and following a madman."

Elain smiled. "Perhaps," she said. "I was thinking of something a little less unusual, like Dana."

"Dana is a nice name, too," Birgit said, laughing a little.

"Horst will be so happy," Elain said softly. "He's always wanted a daughter…." Her eyes filled with tears, though she was still smiling.

Birgit clasped her hand. "Horst is strong," she assured the blonde. "He will survive."

"Yes," Elain whispered, fear in her voice.

Birgit forced herself not to think how skinny her own son was, how awkward on his feet. He was strong from this journey, working on deck or manning the oars. He was young and swift…_and untrained, and tired from the journey_….

"The gods will protect them," she murmured, half comforting Elain, half comforting herself.


	4. Chapter 4

Notes: Now the story actually begins, and here's where it gets really AU. Hopefully the tense/POV change doesn't mess anyone up too much.

Reviews would be much appreciated!

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 4__._

[_Birgit_. One day after the Battle of the Burning Plains.]

I walk through the battlefield. Everywhere reeks of death and blood; the bodies have not been removed yet, and every so often I'm forced to step over one. Some poor soldier with his eyes glassy and his limbs sprawled—surprised by his own mortality.

My eyes water constantly, wetness dripping down my cheeks. I don't want to call it tears, don't want to admit I'm crying. But how can I be unmoved by this horror?

I am thankful now that I was not allowed to be part of the battle. I know I would have been killed quickly if I'd gone out there. I would have been staring sightlessly at the sky, stained in my own blood, like the unlucky ones I walk amongst now.

Nolfavrell hasn't returned. I search for him now, even as I pray fervently he's with the wounded in the healers' tents. A part of me longs not to know—to keep pretending he's all right—but I'm practical enough face the possibility he's—

Oh. _Oh_. Gods above and below, please let it not be….

All the breath leaves my body. I have found him.

His hazel eyes—_my_ eyes, my father's eyes—are wide, his lips parted, his dark hair streaked with blood. He has been dead for some time. His body is cold and stiff.

I kneel by his side, picking up his limp hand. A few feet away, I glimpse his sword stuck in the belly of a soldier. In my shock, every detail burns into my mind. Brown-haired, mid-thirties, eyes closed as if he sleeps. He looks so peaceful—unlike my son, who clearly died in pain.

I reach to close Nolfavrell's eyes, but my hand trembles uncontrollably. I rest it against his cheek. Dried blood is crusted there. His skin is icy.

Faintly, I hear the hoarse cry as it leaves my lips. I can't breathe. All I feel is emptiness.

I press his cold fingers to my forehead. Limp and lifeless, so unlike those I held when I taught him to walk.

Why now? Why now of all times when he should have been safe, did my son have to die?

Closing my eyes, I rock back and forth and groan softly, adding my laments to the mourning of women all across this plain. Singing the silent song of those left behind, of all those who mourn. Abandoning the frustration, the weariness of our long journey from Carvahall.

Suddenly, I feel a warm palm pressing against my right shoulder. My head twists around slowly to look at the hand, hoping for Elain or some other of the women from my village. But the hand on my shoulder is a man's hand, battered from work and bloody from battle.

Of course, it would be the one man I've grown to hate so well. Roran Garrowsson, who my friends call the Stronghammer. It would be Roran who would interrupt my grieving, who would see me in such a sorrowful state.

Jerking away from the touch of his hand, I stand and brush the tears from my cheeks. He must not see me like this; I do not want sympathy from the man who robbed me of my husband, my home and now, my son. Without speaking, I stand and cover Nolfavrell's face with the cloak I wore to this field. Then, painstakingly lifting his body from the ground, I turn and begin to walk away. Gertrude can help me prepare him for burial.

"Nolfavrell was a brave man, Birgit, and he fought well. You should be proud to have been his mother."

Does he know what he is saying? Doesn't he realize that nothing he tells me will dull the hurt that he has brought to my life? In Carvahall, the soldiers sent to capture Roran killed Quimby in a tavern. When they brought me his body, all they had to give were parched, white bones, covered with bite marks from the gnawing of his flesh. And here, with the Varden where we were supposed to be safe, the delusions Roran instilled in my son led him into battle and to his death.

No, I want no comfort from the Stronghammer.

Struggling with the weight of my dead son, I manage to turn my head and look at his face. What stares back at me is almost impossible to see, the eyes bloodshot and sunken back into his head, the lines of tension transforming his cheeks into a spider web of pain. For all his fine words, Roran has suffered as well, but not so much that I cannot hate him.

"I will thank you to leave me, _Stronghammer,_" I say, stressing the name that he wears like a badge of honor. "You have nothing to say to me, and no right to interrupt a mother's grieving."

I continue walking away toward the camp, hoping that he will stay behind. As I stumble over a dead horse wearing the insignia of the empire, my son's body slips out of my arms and into the marshy water. Within seconds, Roran is on his knees and lifting my son from ground.

Heaving a deep breath, he raises Nolfavrell's limp form into his arms and heads off in the same direction that I had. Following his steady gait, I catch up with him quickly.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask angrily, "I thought I'd made it clear that you have no right to be here."

Without slowing his pace, Roran looks down at me, a confused glare taking the place of his blank expression.

"You needed help carrying him, there's no way that you would have been able to carry him all the way back to the Varden yourself."

"I don't want your help!" I insist, frustrated that he doesn't grasp the point. Is this man so wrapped up in his lost fiancé that he can't understand what he's doing?

"If it weren't for you, Roran, I wouldn't have to be carrying my son's body to Gertrude for burial."

He grinds to an abrupt halt, feet sliding in the mud about three inches beyond where he had stood, and turns to his right again to face me.

"If it weren't for me, Nolfavrell would be dead back in Carvahall, nothing left of him but bones, just like Quimby. Here, he died with courage, avenging his father with honor. Tell me how that's not better than a desecration that would have left you, and everyone else dead with him."

This man, no, this boy – has the nerve to tell me that my son died with honor! What is honor compared to a full and happy life, the life that Nolfavrell should have enjoyed?

I reach up to his scraggly chin and tug his face down to my height, staring at him with cold hatred flooding over every inch of my face.

"Don't talk to me about courage, Roran Garrowsson. You who dragged our entire village across all Alagaësia because you wouldn't stand and face the ones sent to take you to the king." Now his face is angry as well, darkening at my words; good, let him be furious, let him be offended at the truth.

"And don't talk to me about honor, Stronghammer. You who hid behind good men like Horst and Thane and Parr all for your own gain, only to abandon them once they served your purpose."

The corners of his mouth pull into a tight grimace. "I did what I thought to be best. Surrendering myself to the Empire would have been like selling my soul. Galbatorix would have used me for bait to lure Eragon to him, then killed both of us."

I laugh shortly at that. _Oh, Roran, you fool. What do you think Galbatorix wanted Katrina for?_

He gives me an irritated look and asks what could possibly be funny. I repeat my thoughts to him.

"It may be a trap," Roran agrees, "but I have to go. If it were Quimby or your son in Katrina's place, would you not do the same?"

I'm forced to admit that I would. "But not alone," I say, "and not with a horde of tired villagers at my back, either."

Roran nods. "Exactly. Which is why I have made arrangements for you _tired villagers_ to go with the Surdan army to Aberon. You'll be protected and fed under the Surdan government—that dark-skinned lady, Nasuada, promised she would see to it. Eragon and I leave tomorrow morning to hunt the Ra'zac."

I stop dead, outraged. It takes him a moment to realize that I have stopped walking; when he does, he turns, Nolfavrell's body still slung over his shoulder, and sighs. "What have I said now?"

"I can't _believe_ you," I snarl. "We've followed you all this way—_I've_ followed you all this way—and you drop us at the first convenient moment so that you can go off and continue your grand quest? I'll not have it!" I fold my arms stubbornly. "The Ra'zac killed my family just as surely as they killed yours, Stronghammer. Do you know what it was like, being told that my husband had been _eaten_?"

I feel the tinge of hysteria in my words, and I think Roran can sense it too, because he says, "Calm down, Birgit. You know it's not practical to bring you along."

"Why?" I say angrily. "Because I'm a _woman_?"

"No," he says, which is lucky for him because if that was his reason I might have hurt him. "Eragon's dragon, Saphira, can only carry two people at once. We mean to travel fast and light—the longer it takes, the more risk of the Empire finding us."

"Oh," I say. Already my mind is working fast, devising a way I can follow them. But I know it wouldn't work, even if I was on horseback. I'd seen the dragon flying in battle—it was much faster than a horse.

I bow my head in disappointment, feeling close to tears again. If I don't have my vow of revenge to cling to, I will be lost. I will just be another widow, doomed to grow old alone with her bitterness. I don't think Roran really understands that. Killing the Ra'zac is all I have left to hold on to.

"The Ra'zac are built to kill humans," Roran said, beginning to walk again. I mechanically follow. "You're a good fighter, Birgit, but you aren't trained to kill a creature like that. That's why I have to take Eragon. He's been training with the elves. Looks a proper fool now—they changed his face, so he even looks like an elf. But he can fight a whole lot better than I can."

"I could learn," I say defensively.

"But not fast enough," he points out.

We've reached the camp. Roran stops. "I can take Nolfavrell to be buried. Or would you rather do it?"

His tone is surprisingly gentle, but it only annoys me. I do not want his pity. "You take him," I mutter, suddenly tired. "I can't carry him alone."

He nods, and reaches out to touch my arm briefly. "I really am sorry," he says.

I shrug him off. "Glad to hear it," I growl uncharitably.

He turns to go, but I call him back. "Roran—"

"Mmm?" He looks over his shoulder at me.

"Make sure they give him a proper burial," I say. My voice wavers. Without looking back again, I go to find Gertrude. She'll find me a quiet place where I can sleep and cry and forget.

*******

[_Roran_. That night.]

I stare at the canvas above my head, listening to Eragon outside. He is talking to two women—the dark woman, Nasuada, and the beautiful elf with whom he seems to share some sort of uncomfortable history. Nasuada is instructing him not to get killed because her rebel alliance needs him. I suspect a different motive for wanting him alive—I've seen the way she looks at him, all glowing, when he's not paying attention—but she's all business right now.

Arya, the elf, isn't saying much—just chipping in with a side note now and then. I can't understand a word she says because she's speaking in that magic language Eragon learned from the elves. Nasuada seems not to understand it either—every time the elf speaks, the edge of irritation in her voice grows more pronounced.

I hear footsteps, and now it's Jeod Longshanks speaking. "Eragon," he mutters, "I hear you're going to finish it with the Ra'zac this time."

Eragon makes an affirming sort of noise. Jeod hums to himself, then continues: "I've heard rumors that the final dragon egg is kept for safekeeping in their lair. If you happen to find it…."

"I'll bring it back as quickly as possible," Eragon says. "Thank you, Jeod."

I almost laugh. He sounds so formal. What did the elves _do_ to him?

I shift to my side, waiting for sleep to come. But though I'm exhausted, I can't seem to calm down. I can't help thinking about what's to come. The horrible beaked faces of the Ra'zac loom whenever I shut my eyes. What if Katrina's dead when we get there? What if I'm too late? _Oh, Katrina_. I will away the Ra'zac and summon instead the memory of her copper hair, her sweet smile, her voice. _Katrina, my love_.

As my mind drifts, Katrina fades and is replaced with the memory of Nolfavrell's sprawled form. I wish he hadn't died. He was a promising young man, dependable, a good fighter—but too young for real battle. I feel sorry for poor Birgit. She's always been fiercely protective of her son. I can't begin to imagine what it would be like to lose a child.

I almost wish we could have brought her along. She certainly has enough hatred for the Ra'zac, and wants them dead as fervently as I do. It's a pity she isn't a trained fighter. She has a warrior's heart, I think.

Eragon's and Nasuada's voices outside the tent blend together in a dull hum. I close my eyes and try to empty my mind of its disquieting images. I sink slowly into the blackness of sleep.

I wake to the sound of screams.

*******

The Ra'zac attack our camp in the cold half-light that comes just before dawn. Eragon and Saphira are just taking off as I stumble out of bed, fumbling for my hammer. It's a calculated move on Galbatorix's part, and a cruel one; the Varden's army has just relaxed into recovery mode, and we are at our weakest. An attack of this sort is unexpected to say the least.

Saphira meets the two horrible flying beasts—_lethrblaka_, Eragon named them—in the air. But the two dark-clad ones are already on the ground, wielding serrated knives and slashing left and right at anyone who dares step out of his tent.

I watch a man nearby get slashed. It's only a small cut, very little blood, but he screams in agony. I realize the knives are probably poisoned with the same flesh-eating oil that killed my father.

My hammer is no good against tainted blades. I borrow one of the spare swords heaped inside the tent, swinging it to test the balance before stepping outside.

The Ra'zac are deadly, especially to those who haven't fought them before and underestimate them. They don't even have to wound severely to ensure a death—just a nick in the right place, and the poisoned oil will seep into the blood.

I crouch, waiting for the right moment to attack. And then I see a familiar flash of auburn braids: Birgit, dashing out of Gertrude's tent armed only with a small dagger. She is frenzied with anger and revenge—and she doesn't realize the Ra'zac's blades are poisoned.

This is different than watching soldiers I don't know die. I traveled with Birgit for months of hardship. I _know_ her. And my first instinct is to put myself between her and the Ra'zac.

Which is how I find myself face to face with one of the foul creatures yet again.

I bring the sword up quickly, unaccustomed to its length and weight. The blade slashes the Ra'zac's belly, and it shrieks, the stench of its breath hitting me in the face. I haven't wounded it badly. I swing again, hoping to behead it, but it ducks, lashing out in return. I step back and collide with Birgit, who is still trying to fight.

"Get away from here," I tell her between gritted teeth.

She makes an incoherent growling sound—probably thinking I'm doubting her abilities.

"No—damnit, Birgit—their knives—_poison!_" I manage to say, as the Ra'zac slashes again and I'm forced to duck.

"I don't care," she growls. "I want to see it _bleed_."

And she shoves me out of the way, with the ferocity of a woman who has nothing to lose.

She scores a hit; the Ra'zac hisses, its forearm seeping black blood. It lashes back and catches her sleeve near the shoulder. I can't tell whether she's been cut or not, but she doesn't seem to notice. Does she really think she can kill the creature with her little blade?

The Ra'zac shifts its hold on the blade. No more light cuts. It's preparing to stab. And still Birgit won't retreat. Her lips pull back from her teeth in a snarl.

I can't watch her die. I dive at her, pushing her out of the way. She pulls me down with her, punching at me with her free hand. "Stronghammer, you bastard," she grits out.

The Ra'zac advances. Now it's going to stab _both_ of us. I try, at the last minute, to shield Birgit with my body.

Then, quite suddenly, the Ra'zac's head disappears.

For a tense moment, I stare at the creature, unable to figure out what has just happened. Then it slowly sinks sideways, its torso landing beside its head.

Behind it, a strange woman with flyaway curls is standing triumphantly, holding in her hands a staff with a steel blade at either end.

"Well, hello," she says, smiling cheerfully. "You must be Eragon's cousin."

I slowly sit up. "Did you just kill—" I gesture at the Ra'zac's carcass.

"I think so." She glances at it. "Well, unless beheading doesn't work on these things. I'm Angela, by the way."

Birgit tries to stand up, but I have accidentally sat on her skirt. She tugs at it angrily. "Move it, Stronghammer," she snaps.

I move off her hem and scramble to my feet. "Sorry."

"_Sorry?_" Her voice rises. "If it weren't for her, we'd both be _killed!_"

I fold my arms defensively. "If not for me, _you'd_ have been killed. I tried to tell you—their knives have that flesh-eating stuff on them."

"Seithr oil," Angela puts in knowledgeably, quite at ease with the fact that we are having an argument in front of her.

"I don't care if I die," Birgit says passionately. "Don't you get that, Roran? I have _nothing_ to live for, except to kill the beasts that ate my husband—_and_ the damned fool that brought them to Carvahall in the first place!"

"That'd be Eragon, not me," I say stonily. "And if I didn't need him to rescue Katrina, I'd say good luck to you. But as it is…."

"I'll kill the other Ra'zac first," Birgit interrupts. "And _then_ I'll kill you."

"Speaking of which," says Angela, "it looks like the other one's getting away."

Sure enough, one of the lethrblaka is flapping heavily away, a single rider on its back. It looks injured—the lethrblaka—but the other Ra'zac appears unhurt. The beast is carrying something in its claws, a person-sized bundle wrapped in a cloak. A corpse, maybe. It can't be the first Ra'zac, for it still lies dead a few paces away. Perhaps it stole itself some lunch. My stomach lurches in disgust.

I scan the skies for the other lethrblaka, but there is only the one.

"Where's the other winged one?" I say, shading my eyes. And then I realize another airborne form is missing. "And Saphira—where—?"

Angela's fingers flutter over her herb pouch. "The dragon is injured," she says matter-of-factly. I wonder how she knows that. "Eragon may be, too. If you'll excuse me—"

She turns to leave, then stops and beckons to me. "This is an antidote to seithr oil," she tells me, handing me a little bag. I look inside and see a fine white powder. "If the two of you would be so kind as to patch up the damage around here while I see to the Rider…."

I nod. "I will."

"Use it sparingly. It's very hard to make, that antidote," she says sternly, and hurries away.

I pray she can make Eragon and Saphira well enough to travel. But it looks as if the Ra'zac attack has ruined our plans of leaving at dawn.

Birgit snatches the antidote from my hand. "People's limbs are being eaten away while you stand daydreaming, Stronghammer," she says.

I let it pass, and we set to work, dabbing the powder into the cuts of those not mortally wounded. It's lucky the Ra'zac were aiming only to injure, to infect with the oil—if they'd been trying to kill, there would be many more casualties.

But their attack is not without effect. The whole camp is shaken up. As the sun rises, Lady Nasuada is heard giving orders to begin teardown immediately. The army will march back to Surda as soon as possible.

I hope all the more that Eragon and the dragon are fit to travel.

By the time we finish administering the antidote, it's nearly midday. Angela returns to take back what's left of the powder, and to bring news of my cousin and his dragon. Saphira was wounded near-fatally in her fight with the now-dead lethrblaka, she tells me. Though she is out of danger and will recover eventually, she needs at least a week to rest.

But that's not the worst of it. Eragon is missing, and eyewitnesses report that he was snatched by the surviving lethrblaka as it flew away. _So that's what it was carrying_, I think grimly. Not some random dead body to eat, but a valuable prisoner for the king.

I swear under my breath. "Sorry," I add to Angela and Birgit, even though I've heard Birgit use worse language on occasion. Then I turn my mind back to the matter at hand…and repeat the swearword with new feeling. How can this be happening _now?_

Every day we waste is a day Katrina spends in captivity. I imagine her in a dungeon cell as Eragon scried her, cold and hungry, waiting for me to rescue her, and want to scream in frustration. She must think I'm never coming. She must think I don't love her, or that I'm dead.

I _have_ to go to her.

Birgit rubs her shoulder absentmindedly, and I put my thoughts aside as I realize she, too, might have been touched by the seithr oil. In the chaos of the morning, I've forgotten all about it.

"Let me see your shoulder," I demand.

She glares at me.

"I don't mean—I think you might have some of the seithr oil on you," I explain. I take back the antidote from Angela, who doesn't seem to mind; she is staring into the red eyes of the strange cat that seems to follow her everywhere.

Birgit cranes her neck to look at the tear in her sleeve. I draw closer and examine it too—I can faintly smell the rotting, sickly sweet scent of the oil. She's lucky. The skin hasn't been broken, but the residue on her blouse is slowly eating through her skin.

I dip my fingers in the powder and dab it on the place where the shirt meets her arm. "You should change your shirt," I say. "And burn this one."

I look up and meet her eyes. Her expression is guarded. Something in her eyes changes, so fleeting I can't put a name to it—and then her eyebrows meet in anger.

"We are _not friends_," she hisses at me, and the next moment she's gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 5._

[_Birgit._ Later that day.]

I can't seem to find anything to do with myself after that. The whole camp is occupied with packing up and moving out, but neither I nor any of the villagers I know have any belongings to pack; all we own is on the ship, which is to sail back the way we came.

Bored, I return to the ship—keeping my eyes away from the corpses as I cross the battleground—and visit Elain and little Dana. Horst has taken time off of helping with the heavy lifting work to come see his daughter, and a happier father I have never seen.

Elain and I watch him, smiling to ourselves, as he observes with awe the way that Dana's tiny hand wraps around his huge, scarred fingers. "He'll spoil her rotten when she's older," Elain whispers to me.

The familial bliss is cloying after awhile, so I wander away, returning to land. I'm working up the humility to go and ask Angela if there's woman's work to be done when I hear Roran's voice—talking to himself.

"How long?" he asks; a pause, then, "That's too long. Can't you heal faster?"

There is an annoyed rumble and a cloud of smoke. Then I realize to whom he is talking: the blue dragon, Saphira.

I move closer, wishing I could hear the dragon's half of the conversation.

"Surely they aren't planning to move you," he says. Another puff of smoke. "The witch is to stay and heal you? That's the lady I met this morning…Angela?"

Then the conversation takes a startling turn. "What? Who's eavesdropping?"

The dragon's head swivels, and her brilliant eyes meet mine. I freeze, my heart thumping.

_Hello_, says a strange, feminine voice in my head.

Roran appears from behind the dragon's bulk. "Birgit? What are _you_ doing here?"

"You're going to go anyway," I say as his words begin to make sense. "You're going to go _without_ Eragon, _with _an injured dragon…Stronghammer, it's suicide."

"Do you have a better plan?" Roran asks.

I fold my arms. "Take me with you."

He laughs aloud. "That's your _better_ plan? Birgit, you're—"

"I'm what?" I say when he stops abruptly. "A weak, helpless female? Were you not _there_ on the docks at Tierm, Stronghammer? I can take care of myself."

"Give me one good reason I should bring you," he challenges.

The dragon speaks for me, sounding mildly amused. _Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. I do not think you want this woman as your enemy, cousin of Eragon_.

"Damn right," I say, forgetting for a moment that I'm talking to a dragon.

Roran sighs. "Saphira, do you really think this is a good idea?"

_She is not weak_. The big jewel eye blinks at me. _I will need another week to recover, as I told you, even with the witch's care. During that time, you must train her to fight as you do_.

"You mean, teach a woman to fight like a man?" Roran looks shocked at the notion.

_It is not so strange. The elven women fight just as well as the men_.

Roran makes a disgusted noise, tugs on his beard, and then says, "Very well." He spits in the dust and turns his back.

For once, I don't mind his self-absorbed disdain. I have won this round of the battle; I am to learn how to fight the Ra'zac. I almost feel I have something to live for again.

*******

The army moves out that same day.

After they are gone, Angela the witch takes complete command. "We need to move Saphira someplace less exposed," she says matter-of-factly. "She can't fly just yet, so I suppose we will have to carry her."

Saphira, Roran, and I make noises of protest all at once.

"You three have no sense of humor," she says, sighing dramatically. "Saphira, stop looking so indignant. I know you can walk. Come on then, up you get. There's an outcropping of rocks about a mile away—that'll do as well as anything."

So we walk. It's not a difficult journey; Saphira takes frequent rests at the insistence of Angela, and her steps are painstakingly slow so as not to crack the scabs all over her body.

We reach the rocks a few hours before nightfall. Angela builds a fire and somehow manages to keep it smoke-free; Roran disappears and returns an hour later with a couple of dead hares. I skin and gut them, and Angela lends me some of her herbs to put in with the meat.

Saphira, curled in a depression in the rock, lets out rumbling snores. Not even the smell of rabbit stew wakes her.

After supper, I want to curl up like Saphira and sleep off the long, trying day—but just as I've gotten comfortable, Roran tosses me a branch stripped of its leaves.

"Ever played at sword-fighting, Birgit?" he asks, tapping a second branch against mine.

"No." I get up reluctantly and immediately receive a whack on my shoulder. "Hey!"

"I am not going easy on you because you're a woman," Roran says, twirling his branch in what looks to me like an expert manner. "You asked for it. Remember that."

"I never said I wanted you to go easy on me," I growl, and swing at him with all my strength.

He blocks it all too easily, and while I'm recovering from that, he reverses direction and taps me on the hip. I try to anticipate his next move, but I twist the wrong way, overbalance, and trip on my skirt.

"This is not going to work," I snap. "Do you have a spare pair of pants I can borrow?"

"None that aren't bloodstained, and don't try using your femininity to back out of this." Roran grasps my hand to help me up, but as soon as I'm on my feet he's swinging at me again. "You know, for all you hate to be labeled as a _weak woman_, you know full well how to use it to your advantage."

"I beg your pardon?" I gasp, striking back in indignation.

"_Oooooh, my skirt tripped me, I guess I can't fight after all_," Roran says in falsetto, imitating me in an extremely insulting (and, I might add, inaccurate) manner.

"Why, you—" I swing my branch harder, again and again. He blocks each blow, to my growing frustration.

At last I fall down, exhausted and tripped again by my skirt. I'm sweating horribly and covered in dust. Roran's sweating too, but he's not breathing nearly as hard as I am.

Saphira's eyes glow in the firelight as she watches us. Angela's watching too, shaking with silent amusement, her cat crouching at her feet.

"Now I see why we women leave the swordfighting to the men," I gasp, using my sleeve to blot the beads of sweat from my brow.

Roran raises his eyebrows. "Well?"

"We're ten times smarter than you, is why," I say, and hobble off to find a drink.

*******

We're there another week. For me, it's seven days of work. Roran forces me to go hunting with him so I can strengthen my arms by drawing a bow. He takes me running along the riverbank before midday. We repeat the swordfighting spectacle each night (though the next night Angela lends me a pair of loose trousers to fight in). And whenever I look bored or idle, he makes me do some vulgar man's exercise he calls "push-ups."

"Pain is weakness leaving the body," he snarls whenever I collapse or complain.

My limbs are weak as a dishrag and painfully sore each night, but by the end of the week I'm not quite as sore as I was. I consider that an improvement. Once I even manage to knock his sword-stick out of his hand, though he swears it was a fluke.

Saphira's wounds knit daily too, much faster than I would have expected. Angela says that dragons naturally heal faster, but I catch her muttering over them when she thinks I'm not around and I begin to suspect the witch is pouring power into the dragon's wounds along with her healing herbs. She seems weak; other than helping me make dinner when I'm worn out, she doesn't do much. Her weird cat gathers herbs for her.

At last, after the promised week, Angela allows Saphira to fly. The dragon eagerly gets to her feet, shedding the supplies we've been propping against her handily inert form, and flexes limbs and wings, rather like a cat stretching. Then she takes off, gouging great claw-marks in the ground.

Her start's a little graceless, but she catches herself and gains altitude, disappearing into the low-hanging clouds. She's gone a long time, but when she reappears, she's no longer the listless, depressed lump she's been since Eragon was kidnapped. She's energetic and eager to get going.

_Pack up_, she says impatiently, bumping us with her hard-scaled nose and bruising my arm. With disgust, I notice there's fresh blood on her muzzle. She's been hunting. _We're going to get Eragon. Now now now!_

I glance at Angela. "Can she make the trip? Is she well enough?"

"Well, I would really prefer it if she waited another day…." Angela trails off as Saphira thrusts her long snout right in the witch's face.

_We're going_.

"But it's not necessary," Angela finishes hastily. "I'd say she can carry you two perfectly fine. Roran, mind if I take your horse? Saphira can carry your supplies now, too."

"But wait," Roran interrupts. "Will you be all right, traveling alone?"

Angela laughs. "My, what an opinion you have of us women," she says merrily, tweaking Roran's nose (he puts his hand over it and glares). "Rest assured, Stronghammer, that any man foolish enough to waylay Angela the Herbalist would soon find himself wishing he hadn't."

Roran removes his hand from his nose, still looking rather put out, and says, "Well, all right then. I won't need a horse anyway, now that we've got Saphira." (Saphira preens a little at this.)

"Thanks very much, then," Angela smiles. "Do you need help putting on Saphira's saddle?"

We do. Angela helps us lift the leather contraption onto the dragon's back, making us do up the straps so that we don't forget how. We break camp—bury the fire and pack up, attaching our bags to the saddle. Angela waves and wishes us good luck as she rides away.

When she's out of sight, Roran and I look at each other. "Well, let's try this," I say, and step toward Saphira, intending to clamber on.

Roran beats me to it. He slides into the saddle and reaches down to grab my hands, to help me up.

"You shouldn't treat me like a girl," I say as he does up the leg straps. "I'm wearing trousers now."

"That doesn't make you a man," he mutters, and straightens up. "Birgit, this is going to work a lot better if you slide closer to me so I can hang on to you."

I glance back at him, hesitant to do as he asks.

"Do you _want_ to fall off?" he asks, exasperated. "I'm the one strapped in. Come on. I'm not _that_ repulsive."

I swallow the urge to say, "Care to bet on that?" and do as he asks, sliding back so my back is touching his chest. All my muscles stiffen. Being this close to another person is something I have long avoided.

"Would you relax?" he mumbles. I feel his breath on my neck and have to resist batting it away like a tickling fly. He carefully puts his arms around me, balling one hand into a fist and grabbing that wrist with the other. He's wary of this closeness too, I realize with some satisfaction. His muscles are just as tense as mine.

_Are you two ready yet?_ Saphira asks impatiently.

"Yes," Roran calls.

And without further ado, there's a neck-cracking lurch and we're in the air.

I watch our campsite dwindle away smaller and smaller. "Aaaaaaaah—oh gods," I cry, and grab hold of the edge of the saddle. _I think I left my stomach down there!_

Roran doesn't scream, but his arms tighten around me until I can hardly breathe.

Saphira's great blue wings flap just behind us, and the ground grows even smaller. I shut my eyes, feeling like I might be sick.

When I open them, the world is cold, wet, and white. Somehow I always thought clouds would be tangible, soft and cottony, but they're nothing but dense fog. Rather disappointing, in fact.

Air up here is thinner, so I call back to Roran: "Loosen up a bit! I can't breathe!"

He obliges, and then we're out of the cloud. Up here it's sunny—a wonderland with a carpet of white. _Beautiful_, I think. It's not nearly as frightening when you can't see the ground.

The wetness of the cloud begins to dry and the air whipping past becomes less freezing. I smile and finally relax. Who knew flying was like this?

But an hour later, it's dead boring.

Clouds at first are pretty, especially with bright sun above. But after a while they become monotonous, and the sun hurts your eyes, and you wish for some of the variegation of the ground below.

I begin to have a headache from the thin air and relentless sun. Also I feel a growing need to relieve myself. But I don't know how to make it known without embarrassment—

_I understand_. I blush—the dragon has heard my thoughts! I don't know if I'm more embarrassed or relieved that I don't have to say it out loud. We veer downward into the clouds as Saphira broadcasts to Roran: _We will stop for a rest here_.

*******

We fly north all day, save for a few more stops for food or rest. I don't know how Saphira manages it, being above the clouds, but somehow she follows very close to the Jiet River—each time we stop, it's near the riverbank.

Night falls, and still we keep flying. Roran and I take turns dozing against each other.

At last, Saphira dives for the ground again. _We will camp here_, she says firmly. _No fire. Helgrind is only an hour away and the Ra'zac will be expecting us._

We sleepily agree and, once we've been jolted half-awake by the landing, pull out our blankets and find a flat place to rest. Since there's no fire, we sleep back to back—we're too tired and cold to care about being close this time.

"Wake me at first light," mumbles Roran, "we can finally rescue Katrina…and Eragon too I s'pose…." He lapses into soft snoring, and the rhythm of his breathing lulls me into sleep as well.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Reviews would be lovely and much appreciated. :)

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 6._

[_Roran._ The attack on Helgrind.]

We don't wake up at first light.

I wake up around noon to find that Saphira's still snoring away, dead asleep. Birgit's still asleep too, so I shake her awake. She rubs her face and mumbles, "What time is it?"

"Midday," I tell her wryly. "So much for attacking at dawn."

"Maybe it's a good thing," she says, maneuvering herself into an upright position and smoothing her hair. "Now we can spend the rest of the day scouting the lay of the land and finding out how to get into their lair. What did Eragon tell you about it?"

"Next to nothing," I admit. "He was going to fill me in during the journey here." I glance at Saphira. "I think she knows what he was planning, but I don't want to wake her yet." Saphira looks peaceful now, but I'm sure that, when woken out of a deep sleep, dragons aren't the most cheerful of beasts. I can't afford to be eaten, not when I'm so close to the goal I've worked months to reach.

Since Saphira warned us against building a fire, we breakfast on bread and cold rabbit meat from two days previous. I talk Birgit into a sparring match, and reluctantly she agrees, stretching her sore arms and legs briefly before picking up a branch.

"No, wait." I rummage in the bag that holds my battle armor and produce a pair of swords. They're rusty, but I spent a day sharpening them on a stone during Saphira's recovery. I hand the lighter one to her hilt first. "You ought to practice with the real thing at least once before you have to use it," I say.

She looks at the blade, rubbing at the rusty spots and testing the edge with her thumb. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asks. "This is sharp."

"I know. Try not to behead me and I'll return the favor," I say. "On guard."

She crouches, and I notice another blade glinting in her left hand. So she's been carrying a little dagger around all this time! I briefly wonder where she managed to conceal it before she attacks.

The sound of metal against metal surprises us both, but she doesn't hesitate long. Stepping back, she eyes my stance and feints at my feet. At the last minute I catch myself and block her swing.

We practice for a quarter of an hour, during which she nicks my wrist by accident and I draw blood on her calf and upper arm. "We're bleeding already and haven't even met the enemy," she jokes half-heartedly, tying a bandage around my wrist.

_You are improving, little bird_, says Saphira's voice in my head, addressing Birgit. _Is she not, cousin of Eragon?_

"Saphira! You're awake," I exclaim, jumping up. I resist adding, "Finally."

I glance at Birgit and see that her face is clouded. "Why do you call me little bird?" she asks quietly.

Saphira shifts. _Your movement and coloring made me think of a robin redbreast_, she says. _I meant no offense_.

"My late husband called me that," Birgit says, her expression turning to stone.

_I apologize_.

I quickly change the subject, seeing that both of them are acutely uncomfortable. "Saphira, we need to know what Eragon's plans were. How did he plan to get into Helgrind? Do you know where the entrance is?"

Saphira lifts her head. _I do. Eragon and I spoke late last night. He is imprisoned near the top of the mountain, in a cell._ She anticipates my question and says, _No, he has not seen or sensed Katrina. They have drugged him so that he cannot use magic. It was only through the strength of our bond that I was able to touch his mind_.

I frown, wishing for some reassurance that my love is still alive. I will go into battle regardless, but….

"When would be the best time to attack?" Birgit asks.

Saphira considers. _The Ra'zac are weakest during the daylight. But we must consider the risk of being seen. Dawn is best, because most humans will still be asleep_.

"So we wait another night?"

The dragon nods her great head in agreement. _Yes. We wait_.

*******

That afternoon, I sit on a hill where I have a clear view of the peak of Helgrind. To my right, Leona Lake sparkles in the afternoon sun; however, it's the grim mountain that interests me. It is too far away to see any movement, but just knowing that Katrina is up there waiting is enough for it to draw my constant attention.

Katrina, my love.

I try to picture her face and realize with horror that my memory of her is fading. I can't remember her face…I can't smell the scent of her copper hair. I try to remember, word for word, the last conversation we had, and realize I can only remember a general summary of the topic, not exact words.

I _must _see her. _Now now now_. If she fades from my memory then all is lost—my purpose in life, my will to live, my future my hope my dreams…all that's good and right in the world fades with her.

"Look at that brow," Birgit says, interrupting my thoughts. "Such worry…let's see…you must be thinking about Coppercurls."

I tear my eyes from Helgrind's peak and glare at her.

"I know what you're thinking," she says, smirking in that infuriatingly superior way of hers. "How in the world did I guess? Well, you know my great-grandmother was a fortune-teller, so I guess it's just a natural talent."

"Go away," I say between clenched teeth.

She raises her eyebrows. "My, my. Must have been quite the daydream. Were you carrying your damsel in distress off into the sunset as she swooned in your arms?"

"Damn it!" I growl. How does she always know exactly which sore spots to press?

She laughs and perches on a boulder nearby. "You know what your problem is? You concentrate too hard. Think of something else once in awhile. If you dwell on things that cause you pain and anxiety, you'll soon forget there are other emotions." The smile fades from her face. "Trust me. I would know."

"I have other emotions," I argue.

"What? Passion? Love? Those are only a careless word away from hatred and you know it." Her eyes become faraway. "If you love something too much, you'll begin to hate it…and sometimes, if you hate something enough, you'll begin to love it."

What nonsense is she spouting? "I don't think that's true," I say. "Hate and love are as different as hot and cold. Hate destroys things, and love…." I pause.

"Aha," she says. "You weren't going to say that love rebuilds, were you? That it patches things together? You know as well as I that love rips you apart. It's happened to both of us. And what did we use to patch ourselves up? We used revenge, hatred, fury. Oh, don't deny it! I'm right."

Defeated, I say softly, "You are." I let my head fall into my hands. It's true. Hatred of the Ra'zac and the Empire has kept me sane all these months, even when I thought I would fall to pieces for missing Katrina and my old life.

"Then think about this," Birgit murmurs. Her voice is closer—she's standing only a few paces away now. "When you've slain the Ra'zac, brought down the Empire, and gotten your Coppercurls back, will you be able to go back to loving? Or will that hatred stay buried deep inside you, eating away until it destroys you?"

I lift my head. "Why are you saying this? I don't need to doubt myself _more!_ Dear gods, woman, are you a devil?"

She smiles, an ironic twist of the mouth. "I just enjoy watching you suffer," she says, and walks away. She's taken down her hair, and the last thing I see of her is bright auburn waves, a muted flame disappearing into the trees.

She bathes in the lake that evening after supper, picking a place where, if I chose, I could easily watch her.

I don't. But it takes more willpower than it should to resist.

And just to spite her, when she comes back braiding her damp hair and smelling impossibly floral, I hold up a spare coat of stinking, rusty mail that I took from a dead soldier. "Here," I say, blank-faced. "Try this on."

It takes even more willpower not to laugh at her horrified expression.

*******

The next morning, Saphira wakes us just as the eastern sky begins to turn pale.

Having gone over the plans in meticulous detail the previous night, it doesn't take us long to get ready. Birgit reluctantly dons her armor, wearing a disgusted grimace the whole time, and I arm myself too. Our breakfast is nothing but now-stale bread, but even that is hard to force down. The excitement of battle is already quickening my heartbeat, and my stomach tightens with fear that's almost sickness.

I strap myself into Saphira's saddle and tighten my arms around Birgit. I feel her take a deep, steadying breath and her muscles tense—this time not with discomfort, but with readiness. Her hair's braided and pinned again, up out of the way, and she's wearing Angela's trousers.

"Got your sword?" I ask. She nods in response. "Good. Then let's do this." _Saphira?_

_Ready_. With her mental voice comes a sense of eagerness. Without further warning she launches into the air, and our surprise attack is begun.

We head for the peak straight as an arrow. I clutch Birgit's arms, feeling the tension in her muscles.

Then, to my surprise, she's in my mind. _Are you afraid?_

_Aye_, I say, shaken by the feeling of her consciousness touching mine. It's a strange kind of private intimacy, almost like being naked, and I wonder if, in Eragon's world, there's a taboo against this. _How did you get into my mind?_ I add.

_I took the link with Saphira and…reversed it_.

_Should you be able to do that? You're no magic user._

_I don't know_. She glances back at me. _I'm afraid too. Can you feel that?_

_Aye, I can_. It's the strangest thing, feeling another person's emotions. _It's your first real battle. If you were a man, this would be a rite of passage._

_I just want to kill the Ra'zac,_ she says. _Not become a warrior_.

I don't have an answer to that.

_I shouldn't be afraid of dying_, she says, _not when I have nothing left to live for…oh gods…I don't even have any clever last words._

_We might not die_, I say.

Then Saphira breaks into our conversation. _At arms. The lethrblaka has sensed us. It is coming._

Birgit steels herself, and the mental link between us is broken.

The hideous winged thing crawls out of its lair like a centipede from under a stack of firewood and shrieks as it flies at Saphira.

We're both jolted hard as the two beasts meet midair. I tighten my arms around Birgit, knowing she's in danger of falling off.

_Get off_, Saphira says. _I will try to buy you time but you may have to jump_.

"Birgit," I shout. "Undo the straps on my legs!"

She reaches down and fumbles with the ties. I hear her cursing like a sailor as she doubles over precariously. I keep a tight grip on her, my mind filled with an image of her tumbling down the mountain like a broken doll. The very idea makes me feel sick.

She has freed both my legs. Now we're held on Saphira's back by nothing more than the tight grip of our legs. There's another great jolt and the lethrblaka gives a horrible screech as Saphira deeply scratches its side.

_Now_, she calls, and dips down to the ledge where the lethrblaka appeared.

I don't hesitate. Birgit gets her leg over and I throw her bodily onto the ledge, then swing my own leg over and prepare to jump after her.

The lethrblaka comes back, jolting Saphira, and I fall off.

Dimly I hear Birgit shriek. I hit the mountainside and catch myself on a rock, wasting no time in crawling up toward Birgit. Saphira, now free of the burden of carrying us, is busy trading bone-shattering blows with the lethrblaka.

Birgit reaches down to help me up. "I thought you were going to fall to your death!" she gasps.

"No such luck." I groan; my entire right side feels like one big bruise. "Let's go."

"One problem." Birgit gestures to the blank rock behind her. "Saphira put us down on the wrong ledge."

"What?" I touch the rock behind her, confused. "But I was sure the beast came—"

I stop as my hand goes _through_ the rock.

Birgit grins. "Look at that," she says, shaking her head. "The beasts are actually smart. Wonders never cease…." She puts her hand through too, and then takes a deep breath and walks straight forward.

Her whole body disappears.

"Come on," says her disembodied voice. "The rock isn't really there. It's magic, a trick to keep them hidden."

I close my eyes and step forward. "I loathe magic," I grumble, and open them again to look around.

We're in the mouth of a wide cave, its floor scratched up from the lethrblaka's claws. The cave itself is dimly lit with the beginnings of sunrise, but the passages branching off into the depths of the mountain are pitch-black. I suddenly realize we don't have the faintest idea where we're going.

Birgit says into the silence, "Did you think to bring a light?"

"No."

"Pity. Those tunnels have got to be dark. I almost wish your cousin were here," she sighs. "He could magic us up a light." She pulls out her little dagger and brandishes it, turning in a circle to look at the tunnels around us. "I just know the other Ra'zac is in here," she mutters. "Probably laughing at our stupidity."

I draw my sword and stare into the shadowy tunnels. "Show yourself," I challenge. "Where are you, Ra'zac?"

A hissing laugh. "You are brave, Ssstronghammer. Foolisssh, but brave." The thing comes into the light, carrying a naked sword in its claws. "Your cousssin hasss a messssage for you."

I crouch, ready to fight. "What is it?" I move to put myself between Birgit and the Ra'zac. She makes an annoyed noise and steps out from behind me, facing the Ra'zac at my side.

"_Die!_" the Ra'zac hisses malevolently, launching itself at me.

"You know," says Birgit, standing back to watch the thing attack me, "that line really needs some work." And she swings her sword at its back, hitting it hard in the rump.

It shrieks, and I see blue blood splattering the floor. Taking advantage of its distraction, I stab at its midsection, but it dodges away and goes for Birgit. She blocks its attack with her sword, but it's way stronger than her. She's still no good at sword-fighting—a week of practice wasn't nearly good enough. Its sword draws a deep line across her cheek, and she gasps with the pain.

"Over here, flesh-eater," I shout. It clicks and hisses and backs away from both of us, its great black eyes darting from me to her.

"You killed both our families," Birgit reminds it. We herd it away from the tunnels so it can't escape, backing it against a blank stretch of rock. "And now you have two hostages we want back."

"Where is Katrina?" I demand. "And where are you keeping Eragon?"

"Enjoy sssearching," the Ra'zac sneers.

I press the tip of my sword to its throat. "I'll ask you again—where is Eragon, and where is Katrina?"

"Who issss thisss Katrina?" the Ra'zac asks. "I know not thisss name."

"But you have to! She's imprisoned here!"

"Pretty girl, about seventeen, red hair," Birgit says. "Oh, gods, don't tell me you _ate_ her…."

"Ah, the one we took from Carvahall," the Ra'zac says. "Sssshe wasss never imprisssoned here."

It's like a blow to my gut. "Wh-what?"

"We took her to Uru'baen casssstle on the King'ssss ordersss," the Ra'zac says. "The King let usss eat her traitorousss father."

"NO!" The scream of pure fury rips my throat, and I stab blindly, sawing back and forth as blue blood stains my hands. I can't see straight, can't think, can hardly breathe.

All this time, all this effort, and Katrina's not here. Never was here. I am so incredibly _stupid_. That dungeon cell Eragon scried—it could have been a cell in any prison, anywhere, and yet I just assumed it was here because it would be convenient. Kill the Ra'zac, save Katrina. Two birds, one stone.

No. It's never that easy.

Birgit's hands on my face bring me back to reality. "Roran. Roran, it's dead. Stop stabbing it."

I drop my sword and fall to my knees, wanting to hide my tears but aware of the foul blue blood staining my palms. "She's not here."

"Yes, we've established that fact," Birgit says dryly. "Come on, Roran, get a grip already."

"She's in Uru'baen castle. Oh gods." I groan. "I thought this place was impossible to get to. If I set foot in the castle, the King's men will kill me."

"It's not impossible," Birgit says, "just…improbable. Look, I'm not on the wanted list. I can help you get there unnoticed. Just please stop crying, Roran." She makes an exasperated "argh!" sound. "See where love gets you? Stronghammer, for goodness' sake, you're a grown man. Act like one!"

Her irritated tone snaps me out of it, a little bit. I wipe my hands on my pants and then use my sleeve to dry my face. Then I take a few deep breaths to compose myself. I stand up and mutter, "Thanks," in her general direction.

"Welcome." She puts pressure on the cut on her cheek, which is seeping blood. It looks serious—she's lucky it missed her eye. "And I really will help you get to Uru'baen. If you want."

"I do," I say. "This is only a setback. I'm not giving up. She's still waiting for me somewhere. I have to find her."

Katrina. Katrina. _Pretty girl red hair about seventeen_. Except that's not what she is, not at all. She's so much more. She's life and freedom and hope. She is my sweetheart, my fiancé, my lover.

I have to find her. I have to—

Saphira swoops in, past the illusion in the entrance. The gust of wind from her wings knocks both of us back, and she shakes her head, spraying us with water droplets. _Running into a rock wall on purpose is not pleasant_, she informs us.

"Is the lethrblaka—?"

_Floating in Leona Lake. Some poor fisherman saw us. Thought we were lake monsters_. She bares her teeth in an amused grin. _And that one is dead also?_ She sniffs at the beheaded corpse. _Good. It is done then. Follow me_.

"Where are we going?" I ask, following Saphira's lashing tail down one of the passageways.

Birgit shoves me. "Isn't it obvious? She knows where Eragon is."

Oh. Right. I resolve to keep my mouth shut until I can get my thoughts in order. My brain is too scrambled with images of Katrina.

Saphira leads us without hesitation through dark and winding passages, until we come to a corridor with a row of iron doors. She pauses before one of them and, contorting in a curious way, butts it with her head. It rips free of the wall and falls flat on the floor.

Eragon is chained to the back wall, looking much the worse for wear. Once Saphira finishes sniffing at him and silently communicating, I go in and start to work smashing the chains with my hammer.

"No, no, wait," Eragon murmurs, and glares at the manacle on his wrist, concentrating fiercely. "_Jierda_," he mutters, and the metal falls in two halves.

"Yes!" he says triumphantly. "They forgot to drug me this morning. You two interrupted them."

"Ahem," Birgit says. "We _three_."

Eragon looks up sharply. "Who is this?"

"Birgit Mardrasdaughter," Birgit answers for herself. "And before you go whining about how I'm a woman and I shouldn't have come, I'll have you know that I helped Roran corner the last Ra'zac _and_ that I used to look after you when you were only about this tall." She measures with her hand.

Eragon looks taken aback. "You're Quimby's wife? Nolfavrell's mother?"

I wince. Wrong thing to say.

She snaps coldly, "The Ra'zac ate Quimby, and Nolfavrell was killed on the Burning Plains. I am just Birgit."

Eragon nods. "I see. I am sorry." He breaks his other manacle and rubs his wrists. "Have you got any food? I'm starving."

"There's some back at the camp," I say. "We should get out of here."

"No—wait." Birgit gestures at the other iron doors. "Aren't you going to rescue the other prisoners?" She looks at me. "The Ra'zac could have been lying about Katrina, you know."

I feel a quick surge of hope. "Aye, maybe." I turn to Eragon. "Can you wait for a little longer?"

He nods. But before he begins to unlock the cell doors, he makes Birgit come closer and mutters another spell, healing the cut on her cheek that's still dripping blood.

"Thank you," she says curtly, and begins to walk away, following Saphira.

"Where are you going?" I call after them.

"We're going to see if the Ra'zac had any eggs," Birgit says. "Saphira's idea. She wants to smash them."

So we search the cells. Most of them are empty; some contain skeletons. In one, there's an old man who's barely alive, and straight away dies after praising Eragon, whom he calls "Argetlam."

"Why did you bring her?" Eragon wants to know. "She seems disagreeable. And she _is_ a woman."

I shrug. "I trust her. She hates—hated—the Ra'zac as much as I do. Anyway, Saphira told me it was a good idea."

"Saphira?" Eragon raises his eyebrows. His eyes go a little blank, and I can tell he's communicating with the dragon in his mind. Then he focuses on me again and nods. His mouth turns up a little at the corner. "I see." And he presses me no further.

*******

[_Birgit. Helgrind—the Ra'zac's nest_.]

I have to cover my nose with my hand when Saphira and I walk into the cavern where the lethrblaka and the Ra'zac once nested.

The place is filthy. The nest is lined with what appears to be shed skins, and littered with human bones. "Ugh," I say, wincing away from the horror of it. "The world's much better off without the beasts that called this home."

_I agree_, Saphira says, and noses around in their nest, pawing through piles of filth.

"So what made you think they had eggs?" I ask.

_The lethrblaka…in its mind, I saw…protectiveness. A mother's protectiveness_.

"But aren't the Ra'zac their children?" I point out. "Maybe that's what it was feeling protective about."

_No. Something else. Something precious…ah_.

"What? What did you find?"

_Come and see_. Saphira brushes away nesting material, unearthing a small object that she hides by curling her tail around it. I crunch through the bones and excrement of the nest until I can peer over and see what she's gazing at so intently:

There, in the middle of all that disgusting waste, is a polished green stone with grayish veins, almost glowing in its perfection. It's so out of place, so beautiful, that for a moment all I can do is stare, too.

The lethrblaka wasn't protective of its own egg.

It was protecting a dragon's egg.


	7. Chapter 7

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 7._

[_Roran_. After the attack.]

Eragon leaves later the same day on Saphira. Both of them are fiercely protective of the green egg Saphira unearthed in the Ra'zac's nest; Saphira allowed Birgit to carry it on the way back, and allowed me to touch it just to make sure I wasn't its Rider. But after that, Eragon wrapped it in a spare shirt and fashioned a sling to keep it tied close to his chest. It's the most important object in all of Alagaesia, or so he claims. It may decide whether we win or lose the battle against the Empire.

Before he leaves us, he places spells of protection over Birgit and me. "I can't promise this'll stop every attack on you," he warns, "so keep to the shadows."

He also gives me a tarnished silver ring that barely fits over my little finger—something he picked up off the floor of one of the cells. "I've put a spell on this too," he tells me. "If you need my help, twist it to the left and use your mind to call out for me and Saphira. Wherever we are, we'll hear you."

"Thank you," I say, shaking his hand. If he were the old Eragon, the one I knew back on Father's farm, I would have embraced him; but this new Eragon, with his strange elf-like features and his powerful magic, is too much like a stranger.

Saphira lowers her head to my level and says, _My thanks for your help in killing the last Ra'zac, cousin of Eragon_.

Awkwardly, I bow to her like I've seen Eragon do. He does it with much more grace; my version of the gesture is stiff and inelegant and probably makes me look like a fool. "It was an honor to travel with you, Saphira," I say.

She switches her gaze to Birgit, who says nothing aloud—but I know they've communicated, because she nods solemnly and raises a hand in farewell.

Eragon finishes strapping his legs to the saddle and raises his hand, too. "Good luck, Roran," he calls. "I hope you find Katrina alive and well."

I hope so too. Before leaving, at my request, Eragon scried Katrina again. This time, she was asleep, curled on a cot in the same dungeon cell with a thin blanket wrapped around her. There were tear tracks down her face and her copper hair was dark with sweat and grime. It makes my chest ache to think of her suffering that way.

Once Saphira has disappeared into the clouds, I turn to Birgit. She has her hands on her hips, a curious expression on her face.

"Is something wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing," she answers. "Just something Saphira said."

I raise my eyebrows, politely curious, but she doesn't expand. Instead she lifts one of the bags that holds our belongings, and drops it again. "We're going to need horses now," she says, her voice neutral.

"That we are." I glance toward the city walls of Dras-Leona. I don't relish the thought of going in there—Eragon told horrible tales of priests who chop their own limbs off in twisted worship of some bloodthirsty god.

"Do you have any money?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Not unless there's some hidden in those bags. What little I have is still aboard the _Dragon Wing_."

She shrugs. "Same here."

"So we'll be stealing horses then," I say, sighing.

Birgit's eyes snap to me; she glares. "Over my dead body."

I fold my arms. "Birgit, we're outlaws. Have you forgotten? You helped us steal the _Dragon Wing_."

"That was different," she says, scowling.

"How? It was theft." I kneel down and start going through our bags, in case someone thought to put some money in. "There's a time and place for honesty, and this really is not it."

"We aren't stealing horses," Birgit growls. "My father breeds them. Maybe you know him? His name is Haberth, of Therinsford."

I start, surprised. "You're Haberth's daughter?" I never knew her except as wife to Quimby; I think back to my days working for the Therinsford miller, when I met Haberth in the tavern after a day's work. An honest, hardworking man. Now that I think of it, Birgit has his eyes.

"Yes," she hisses, "and believe me, I have a healthy hatred for any man who would dare steal a horse from an honest breeder."

She speaks so vehemently that I'm compelled to agree. "All right. We won't steal from a breeder." I unearth a small pouch that jingles from the bottom of the bag that holds our food. I upend it in my palm, but its contents aren't enough for even one horse, let alone two; at most, it's enough to buy us food for a week, maybe two.

"I suppose I'll have to take a job in Dras-Leona then," I say reluctantly. It'll take at least a week longer, maybe two or three, depending on how fast I find work and how well it pays.

"I'll work too," Birgit promises.

I laugh shortly. "Birgit, the only work for a woman in the city is that of a housewife…or a lady of the night."

She makes a face, but won't be discouraged. "I'll find something. Maybe I can get work as a maid in somebody's house. I'm not too good to dirty my hands with common chores."

"All right." I already know she can look after herself. "One more thing—we'll need to pretend we're man and wife, or we won't be able to room together in the inn."

"We're rooming together?" she asks, looking unenthusiastic about the idea.

"Aye, it's cheaper. Besides, we'll be spending a lot of time together; if we let people assume we're married, it'll keep them from asking questions."

"Fine," she says. "But I'll not sleep in the same bed as you."

"I won't ask you to." I refrain from pointing out that the times we slept back to back on the ground were no different from sleeping in a bed together, except maybe less comfortable.

"We should think of new false names," she says after a pause, "just in case the Empire knows our old ones. I'll be…I'll be Robin."

I think of Saphira's comment that she looked like a robin redbreast and smother a smile. "I'll call myself Cadoc." My grandfather's name.

"Right then, Cadoc," Birgit says. "Shall we?" She slings one bag over her shoulder and grabs another.

"In a minute," I say, remembering that I have one last thing to do. I go through our belongings and unearth the mail coats that the two of us wore earlier that day. I drag them, along with our swords, to the lake and heave them as far out into the water as I can.

"Why are you throwing away the swords?" Birgit asks.

"I took them off of dead Empire soldiers," I admit. "If we were found with them, they'd take us in for questioning right away."

"Good thinking," she says, sounding almost surprised.

I shoulder the remainder of our pitiful belongings and face her. "We're poor peasants whose village was burnt down by crazed Urgals," I say, practicing the lie I've been formulating in my head. "I'm Cadoc, and you're my wife Robin. We're practically penniless and desperate for work."

"Sounds believable," she says bitterly.

And so we start off on foot for the city of Dras-Leona.

We reach the city at nightfall, exhausted and hungry, and choose the first inn we see. The best that can be said for it is that it's cheap. Birgit curls her lip in disgust at the state of the bed and announces that she'll take the floor. Privately, I rather wish I'd been quicker to claim the floor; the bed linens haven't been washed in a while and are likely crawling with bugs. Nevertheless, I crawl between the blankets and try not to think about them biting me as I fall asleep.

*******

I find work the very next day; I join a crew of workers building a house for some wealthy merchant who's about to move to town. It's tough work, but nothing I'm not used to; being a farmer is hardly easy, and being on the run from the law, getting into fights every week, is even less so.

As I was entering the city, I caught sight of a likeness of myself on a wanted notice; so before going to work, I disguise myself accordingly. I trim my beard to a more civilized shape, shave my head, and don an eye patch. Birgit remarks sarcastically that I look like a pirate. "And you look a fool without hair," she adds. "You had better hope it grows back before we find Coppercurls."

It takes her three days of hunting before she finds a household in need of a servant; their housekeeper fortuitously sprains her ankle, and Birgit is hired temporarily to replace her replacement in the kitchens. (Birgit remarks smugly that no one can _prove_ that the woman was tripped, nor can anyone prove Birgit was in the marketplace at the same time as the housekeeper's accident happened.)

Birgit's salary turns out to be a substantial addition to my wages, and each night the collection of coins in her purse grows. She keeps the money hidden on her person, but refuses to tell me _where_.

After a week in the shabby inn, Birgit insists we spend some of the money to move to a better establishment. Scratching a flea bite on my forearm, I agree.

However, once we have a clean, comfortable bed, a new problem arises: Birgit no longer wants to sleep on the floor, and insists I should be a gentleman and take her place.

"I thought you didn't want to be treated like a lady?" I snipe, tired after a day of hauling boards to the second floor of the merchant's rapidly rising house.

"Hmph." She folds her arms, unwilling to budge.

"Well then. I won't sleep on the ground, and neither will you. That leaves only one option…."

"Out of the question," she snaps.

"Birgit," I sigh in exasperation. "I will not lay a hand on you. I won't even kick you in my sleep. For gods' sake, you _know_ I have no desire to…compromise your honor…anyway, we're supposedly married, so no one else will think anything of it."

Her face is thunderclouds with a hint of sharp lightning. "Fine," she says at last. "I will share your bed, Stronghammer…if you lay a sword between us."

"What? That's dangerous!"

"I know." She looks me straight in the eye. "You said you wouldn't even kick me in your sleep. This way you'll have an extra incentive."

I groan. "All right." Anything to get some sleep. "You got a sword?"

"No. Don't you?"

"I threw mine in the lake," I remind her.

She rolls her eyes and pulls out that little blade she's never without. "Then we'll use this. It's not quite the same, but it'll do."

I eye the thing warily. "If I roll over on that and kill myself in the night…."

"Then you'll only have yourself to blame, won't you?" She gives me a sugary smile. "I hope you're not a restless sleeper."

I didn't used to be. But with a sword in my bed…. I soon discover just how effective Birgit's "incentive" is. Even in sleep, I cling so close to the edge of the bed that, upon waking the next morning, I promptly fall out of it.

*******

She forces me to bathe when I return from work the next night, saying that I reek of sweat. The bath is already prepared, and if the light film of soap in the tub is any indication, Birgit's already used it. She leaves the room to give me privacy, so I undress and begin washing myself.

The water's lukewarm and raises goosebumps on my skin. I kneel down to splash water on my arms, feeling cramped in the small bath tub—I'm used to bathing in streams and lakes, not buckets.

I'm almost done when, all of a sudden, the door slams open and Birgit reenters without so much as a knock or a call of "Are you decent?"

"Hey!" I cry.

She ignores me—she's not even looking at me. Her hands are shaking as she slides the deadbolt across.

"That bastard," she grits out, stamping her foot in anger. "I could _kill_ him, really, just put my fingers around his throat and squeeze out his—"

"Birgit!"

She glances at me, awkwardly crouching in the bath tub. "Oh. I thought you'd be—" Her cheeks color and she turns away, staring fixedly at the wall.

"What happened?" I ask, hurriedly drying off and reaching for my pants.

"I was down in the common room, talking to the innkeeper's wife, and this total idiot—some soldier—walked by and—and he—" I can't see her face, but I can tell she's turning redder.

"He what?" I ask, trying not to let my amusement show in my tone.

"He _touched_ my _backside_. On _purpose_."

I muffle my laugh in the collar of my shirt. She's funny when she's furious. "What did you do?"

"I kneed him in the balls," she says matter-of-factly. I choke on my laughter, inhale my own spit, and start coughing.

"Are you dressed yet?" she demands.

"Aye," I cough out, still half-laughing.

She turns to glare at me. "It's not funny."

"Yes, it is." I imagine the poor soldier rolling around clutching himself, the innkeeper's wife gasping in horror, and the guests in the common room starting to snicker. It was _so_ like her to cause that sort of scene.

A little smirk tugs at the edge of her mouth, though she's still blushing. "Well, maybe it was a _little_. I doubt he'll attempt that again anytime soon."

Then she sobers. "He _was_ one of Galbatorix's soldiers. I hope he doesn't come up with some half-witted excuse to have me investigated. If he does, we'll have a lot of lies to invent."

"If I were him, I wouldn't want to tell anyone how a woman humiliated me in front of a lot of people," I point out. "We're probably safe."

"Even so, I hope I never see him again." She cracks her knuckles. "If I do, I'll kill the bastard."

"Now _that_ you'll get in trouble for." I sit down on the bed. "How much have we saved now?"

She turns away from me, does some brief adjustments to her clothes, and turns back around with our purse in her hand. We pour it out on the bed and count.

"With another week's wages or two, we might have enough," I say.

"You think so?"

"Not for a well-bred horse, certainly," I amend. "But I think we might afford a couple of nags, if we bargain well."

Birgit nods. She doesn't look very happy at the mention of "nags." I realize that this is a weakness of hers; she may be willing to live dirt-poor, but she has a love of fine horses. I store that knowledge away, scooping the coins back into the purse. As she hides it away again, I turn back the blankets, sliding into bed.

I can't resist one last joke. "Come to bed, honey," I say, leering like a lecherous soldier.

"Keep doing that and you'll find yourself sleeping in the stable," she snaps, placing the dagger rather closer to my side than it needs to be.

She crawls under the blankets too, and then she gets her revenge: pitching her voice high and breathy, she murmurs, "Good night, husband dearest."

I roll over, turning my back to her, and squeeze my eyes tight shut. I tell myself she isn't getting to me, but that _voice_….

_Katrina_.

*******

We're there another couple of weeks before we have money enough to buy horses and supplies. Our lives soon fall into routine—I wake first, dress, shave, and wake her on my way out the door. Her job has less demanding hours than mine; the kitchen staff gets to sleep in a little because their wealthy employer rarely gets up before midday.

We don't meet again until after dark, when she returns with her arms waterlogged to the elbow from washing dishes. I go downstairs for a drink while she bathes, having taken my own bath before she gets home, and when she is finished, we go to bed.

You would think that, seeing each other so little, we would have no time in which to bicker. In that, you would be wrong. Birgit's never so tired from work that she has no energy left to be sarcastic, and the more time we spend in close quarters, the easier she finds it to pinpoint exactly which sore spots to press to make me react.

But even our arguments start to fall into a comfortable routine. She never goes too far, and I never get too angry. I'm learning to steel myself against her sharp-pointed words. At some point, I come to the realization that her sarcasm and teasing is an assertion of equal power. She won't allow me alone to wear the pants. If pants must be worn in our relationship, we will each occupy one leg.

It's hard to know what to think of such a woman. And she is definitely a woman, though she often acts as bold as a man; she does have her moments of femininity. At times I hate her, at others I respect and—I admit—fear her. Other times I just want to laugh at her.

Finally, I come to the grudging conclusion that I will just have to settle for liking her.

The day comes when our purse is heavy enough, and we gather our belongings and set out for the marketplace. I had asked my fellow builders where one might buy cheap horses, and one of them had given me the address of some shady businessman running a stable that bought and sold animals with questionable origins. I choose to keep the details of the place from Birgit, since she would probably have another attack of morals upon finding out that we're buying stolen horses. I send her instead with a portion of the money to buy supplies for our journey.

We meet up an hour later—me leading a pair of horses (both rather advanced in years, but relatively healthy considering the filthy conditions of the stable I had bought them from), and she lugging a heavy pack with enough food and water to last us the journey to Uru'baen.

I take the pack from her as she eyes the two horses. "I'm not even going to ask where you got them," she mutters, looking over them with a critical eye and choosing the better-looking one, a brown mare. She mounts the horse with graceful expertise. "What are you waiting for?"

I follow suit, somewhat less gracefully.

"I asked someone in the market and they said Uru'baen lies to the east," Birgit says. "He tried to talk me out of going. He thinks he succeeded. But he also thought he was talking to Robin Branwensdaughter." She raises her eyebrows at me. "Ready to go rescue your lady-love, then?"

"More than," I growl, and lead the way eastward.


	8. Chapter 8

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 8__._

[_Birgit_. Upon arrival at Uru'baen.]

The Empire's capital city is crowded and busy, much like the other great cities we've visited on our travels. I suppose I expected the place to live in perpetual night, or to have an ominous thundercloud hanging over it, but I was wrong; the sun shines here too, proving that old proverb: _the rain falls on the just and on the unjust_.

We remain in the parts of Robin and Cadoc; we built a respectable, credible pretense in Dras-Leona, and no one suspects my bald, eyepatched "husband" to be the dangerous rebel Roran Stronghammer.

To be on the safe side, I have Roran put his arm in a sling before we get to the city. "You have a sprained wrist," I tell him firmly. "You cannot work. For the present, I am supporting us."

"Why?" he demands, somewhat petulantly.

I lower my voice. "Just because no one suspects us _yet _doesn't guarantee that no one _will_."

His jaw tightens. He doesn't like it, but he knows I'm right.

So the next day, I firmly instruct him to stay near the inn and not to draw attention to himself. Then I put on my best (cleanest) dress and set off to get a job.

I make a show of asking around at the marketplace if anyone is looking for a job, just so no one will suspect me of intending specifically to infiltrate the castle; lucky for me, an old woman says her daughter just got a job there, adding that she thinks they are a bit shorthanded.

"But y'may not want t' work there, mistress," she adds. "My Lisel don't like the way they treat 'er, not at all."

"Do they pay well?" I ask.

"Well…." The woman hesitates, and I guess that the answer is, "Yes, very."

"Perhaps I'll see for myself how well they treat their maids, then," I say. Once she's reluctantly given me directions, I head off toward the castle—though not without promising, "I'll give my regards to your Lisel, madam."

After being misdirected twice and shouted at by three guards for trespassing, I find my way to the castle's servant's entrance and inquire about working there.

The old steward who opened the door scratches his chin. "We do need a new carryin' girl, one of th' old ones went and got married…well, c'mon, I'll take ye to see the head cook."

The head cook is a tall, broad-shouldered, disagreeable fellow with a peg leg and scars all over him. He wears the uniform of Galbatorix's army and has several medals pinned above his heart. I can tell he would much rather be holding a sword than a spoon. Typical of the King to hire an ex-soldier as a head cook.

The cook looks me up and down and barks out rapid-fire questions. "Are you punctual? Efficient? Can you do what you're told? Keep a cool head under pressure? Keep your head down and respect your betters?"

I answer "yessir" to each one, knowing this is the kind of man you do not talk back to.

"Are you married?" he snaps.

"Yessir."

"Children?"

My answer chokes me. "One. He is dead, sir."

"Your husband doesn't mind you working long hours? You will have little time to keep house."

"We have no house to keep, sir."

"Good," says the cook—rather callously, I think. "Well then. One more thing, and then we'll see if you're good as your word." He turns to the steward. "Fetch Lady Maris."

I stand with my hands clasped, keeping my eyes low, and wonder who Lady Maris could possibly be.

I don't have to wonder long; the steward returns shortly, leading a gaunt woman who towers over both him and me. She looks as if she might have been beautiful once, but age has not been kind to her—though her lips are rouged and her eyes elegantly painted, her cheekbones stick out too far and there are wrinkles on her hands. Her hair, slate-gray, is dressed in an elaborate style, with gems twinkling in the clips and pins, and she wears a dress much finer than I can ever hope to own.

She comes to stand in front of me. "This is your new maid?" she asks the head cook dismissively.

He bobs his head. "Yes, Lady Maris."

"Mmm. I see." She looks me in the eye and takes me by the chin. All of a sudden, I feel a stab of another consciousness in my mind. I cry out and jerk away, at the same time blanking my mind so she can't see anything.

"Oh, my, what was that?" Maris says, eyes glittering shrewdly.

The steward steadies me. "Lady Maris, really, you oughta warn them before ye—"

"Silence," Maris snaps. "This one knows how to block me out. Sloppily, I might add, and obviously a novice in her training, but she has some power." She grasps my face again, those eyes stabbing into mine. "Who are you working for?"

"No one," I mumble, wincing as her nails dig into my skin. "Honestly, Lady. I'm sorry I blocked you. It was an accident."

"An _accident_?" She probes into my mind again. This time I don't stop her, and she begins to sift through my recent memories. She sees Roran, but I make sure to think of him as Cadoc. She finds the memory of us lying in bed together and murmurs, "Ah, your husband."

I hold still and think of nothing.

She pokes through my memories of working in a kitchen in Dras-Leona and of traveling here. Mercifully, she goes no further back, but withdraws and lets me go. I hold my head, which now aches horribly.

"Her blocking talent is remarkable for a peasant," she says, frowning. "But it seems she is untrained. A natural adept, perhaps. Keep an eye on this one, but I do not think she is a spy."

"You don't _think?_" the cook says.

"I cannot be sure. She makes it painful for me to be in her mind," Maris admits. "But I saw nothing suspicious. She travels with a man…Cadoc, he is called…he seems to be her husband. They lived in Dras-Leona before this. They have been living in inns, and they're so poor that both must work."

The head cook eyes me suspiciously. "That sounds like what she said before. I'll watch her, Lady Maris."

Maris rubs her temples. "If you'll excuse me, I must go tell someone about this. They might want to use her natural ability for something other than carrying breakfast…carry on with your cooking." She hurries out of sight.

My palms are sweating against my forehead. If she had dug even a tiny bit deeper, she would have….

"Take her to the other carriers and have them train her," the cook says, waving me away. "And get her a uniform—who knows the last time those rags she's wearing were washed."

The steward grabs my arm roughly. "C'mon, Robin, this way." Once we're out of the cook's earshot, he mumbles, "Good gods, what did you do to Maris? I've never seen the woman display facial expressions before."

"She was hurting my head," I explain. "It was a reflex. What _is_ she?"

"Lady Maris, she be one of the king's magicians," the steward says reverently. "She's in charge of keepin' spies out the castle."

"Well, I'm not a spy, for what it's worth," I mutter. _I'm just trying to find Katrina_.

The steward chuckles. "That's what all the spies say."

"I just want a decent job." Partly true.

The kitchen is bustling and busy around us, but the steward weaves through the crowd without even brushing anyone. He opens a door and pulls me into a small room with no furnishings, save a row of pegs on the wall to hang aprons. There is a large window that connects the room to the kitchen. A line of carriers waits patiently single-file.

As I watch, a maid enters through a second door on the opposite wall. She rushes to the window and shouts, "Lord Murtagh is asking for tea!"

"For how many?" a man on the other side of the window asks.

"Two." She turns and leaves.

The man marks something on a slate attached to the wall, then shouts the order in turn at someone else, who scurries to get it. I watch as, not a minute later, a tray with tea, scones, and honey is delivered to the window. The marks for that order are wiped from the slate. The carrier that's first in line picks up the tray and hurries off.

A new carrier, having completed her mission, comes back in. The steward motions her over and puts his hand on her shoulder. She's a plain-looking woman, perhaps in her twenties. "Lisel, this is Robin. She'll be replacing Kara. Show her the ropes, will you?"

"Aye, sir." Lisel smiles at me. "Welcome, Robin…," and she adds in an undertone, "…to Hell."

"Thanks," I say, returning her smile wryly.

She takes an apron from one of the pegs and hands it to me. As we stand in line, she helpfully explains the process of carrying to me. When a courtier wants something, they send one of their ladies-in-waiting or a valet to place the order; when it's ready, we carry it back. "Sometimes the line goes very fast, like at supper; when it's slow, we can grab a bite of our own," she says.

When we get to the front of the line, it doesn't take long before a tea tray is delivered. "For Lady Felicia," the man tells Lisel.

She picks it up. "C'mon, Robin."

We exit through the back door and find ourselves in a stairwell. Lisel scampers up the stairs with surprising vigor. "It's easy enough to find your way around, once you know the court hierarchy," she calls back to me. "This is going to Lady Felicia—since she's a minor courtier, she's only two staircases up. It's the important ones you have to dread. You have to climb _eight_ staircases to get to the King's chamber."

We reach the Lady's rooms. Lisel knocks twice, and is bid enter. I wait in the doorway as she sets the tea tray on a table and retreats. I only catch a glimpse of the lady, who has pale hair and is sitting in a chair next to the window.

"You don't talk to them," Lisel counsels me as we return to the kitchen. "They think we're dirt." A lord sweeps past us in the corridor and doesn't even appear to notice us. "See? We're invisible." She shrugs. "Sometimes the pretty ones get noticed, but pity them, I say. They only end up as bedwarmers, and as soon as they're with child they're tossed out."

"Good thing I'm a married woman, then," I say, smirking to myself.

I shadow Lisel for the rest of the day, and gradually I begin to get my bearings in the castle. The last order Lisel makes me take myself, with her trailing behind me. The lord's valet comes down to request warm milk for the lord's bedtime; when it's ready, I climb three staircases (the lord is important, but not _that _important) and locate the lord's room, second door on the left. I tap on the door; the valet takes the tray from me, I turn away, and Lisel congratulates me.

"Not bad for your first day as a carrier," she says. "Second day's harder—you'll probably get lost a lot."

I'm hanging up my apron when the man calls, "Hey, Lisel, feeding time in the dungeons. Gregor's got the cart—you want to help him?"

It's just the break I've been looking for! I answer before Lisel. "Can I?"

Lisel grimaces. "Oh, Robin, you don't want to. It's disgusting down there. And the poor prisoners…."

"No, really, it's all right," I say. "I want to, er, get all the experience I can."

"Well, if you want to," Lisel says dubiously. She obviously doesn't care to do the job herself.

I follow Gregor, a stocky young man, to the staircase. This time, instead of going up, we go down. He's pushing a cart with a heavy pot of gruel and the day's reject loaves of bread, and I have to help him carry one end of it down the three flights of stairs into the dungeon.

Lisel was right about the place. It's damp and smells faintly of urine and death. I shudder, hoping to finish the job quickly and locate Katrina even faster.

Gregor ladles the soup into bowls and tears the bread into hunks; I push one bowl and one hunk of bread through each door. I soon learn to do it as quickly as possible—the starving prisoners lunge at me, empty-eyed, and would grab me if I were not quick enough.

I look into each of their faces. Most are men, some are women; all are thin and filthy. But none even resemble Katrina.

The job takes half an hour, working quickly. There are many, many dungeon cells. Not a lot of them are empty. But not a one holds the copper-headed girl I'm looking for. I feel like throwing something in frustration.

"Are there other prisons in the castle, or is this the only one?" I ask Gregor as we leave.

"This's the one," Gregor says. "S'posedly there's a second level down below this one, but I ain't seen it." He lowers his voice. "I hear tell _that_ one's _awful_. I heard the cells don't even got floors, just grating—and underneath the grates there's _aggilators_."

"What?"

"Giant green lizards with a mouth long as me arm, full of sharp snappin' teeth."

I snort. "Sounds like someone's been pulling your leg." But I wonder. If Katrina isn't in this dungeon, could she be in the worse one, the one below? Or perhaps there's another jail outside of the castle! I would have to ask around tomorrow.

Exhausted, I hurry back through the dark streets to the inn. Roran's waiting up, pacing.

"Finally!" he bursts out. "By the _gods_, you're late. What news?"

I tell him about my day, skipping over most of the kitchen part and explaining what I found out about the dungeons. "At least we know she's here somewhere," I say. "I just have to get to her, is all."

"What if the Ra'zac lied?" Roran mutters. "What if she's—"

"If you start what-if-ing, I am going to punch you in the face," I say. "I want _sleep_."

He turns away so I can undress. "I hate staying in all day," he gripes. "I'm so bored I could hang myself. I want to _do_ something."

"That's exactly why I'm keeping you in," I say. "Besides, you wouldn't want to put too much strain on that hurt wrist, would you?"

He swears at me.

"Language," I say tiredly. "All right, fine, tomorrow you can go to the market and ask—subtly!—about other jails or dungeons where Katrina might be held. But you must not storm off to break her loose. I'll not have you getting arrested. Freeing one person is proving hard enough."

"Fine." He means to sound sulky, but I detect a note of relief. Poor Stronghammer. He clearly wasn't listening when his mother tried to teach him that patience is a virtue.

*******

The situation only deteriorates from there.

Roran's mood descends into truly self-absorbed depths of despair, and I hardly have the time or strength to make snide comments enough to snap him out of it. Working in the castle is not easy. I'm constantly on my feet, with barely a moment to slack. Luckily, I'm a fast learner, and after a few misdirections that end in me being slapped or shouted at, I have the court hierarchy all but memorized.

But although I continue to volunteer to feed the prisoners, and ask many carefully worded questions at prudent times, I'm no closer to locating Katrina.

I'm beginning to despair myself, however much I try to talk myself out of it.

One night, when I have been working at the castle about a week, I leave later than usual. There is a banquet at court—Galbatorix celebrating some victory or other in battle—and the carriers are forced to act as extra servants, pouring wine and fetching things.

I glimpse Galbatorix a few times; he sits at a high table, separate from everyone else, with his loyal few advisors and war generals. Only certain servants are allowed to wait on that table. Since I'm still on probation, I'm not one of them.

Our Traitor King is not ugly or ancient, to my surprise. Rather he looks to be no older than forty, with strong, almost handsome features and hair salt-and-peppered black and gray. His mouth is strangely compelling, its shape sensuous and attractive; his voice, when I catch a word or two in passing, is even more pleasing.

"Yes, it is unfortunate that Lord Murtagh won't be joining us," I hear him say to his neighbor. "This banquet is partially in his honor, after all—but he is still recovering from his injuries, and I believe his lady is most kindly helping him…." Knowing laughter drowns out his riveting voice, and I shake my head and continue down the table with the wine pitcher.

Finally, the banquet breaks up in favor of dancing, and we are allowed to go. Yawning, I hang up my apron and hurry through the kitchen to the servants' exit.

Outside, the city is settling down to sleep—and meanwhile, its thieves, whores, and assassins are beginning to go about their business. I wish I had my coat. It is chilly out, and my breath mists before me as I walk quickly, hugging myself to keep in warmth.

A man steps in front of me. I try to go around him, but he catches me by the arms and stops me. "Hello, miss."

I look into his face and, with a shock of horror, recognize the soldier who had harassed me in that Dras-Leona inn. The one I'd kicked. Hard. The one I'd laughed at and left collapsed on the floor moaning in agony.

I press my lips together and chant a litany of swearwords in my head. Does he recognize me?

"I didn't have the pleasure of your name when we met before."

Oh yes. He recognizes me.

"You won't have it now, either," I snap. "Take your hands off me."

He smiles. His eyes are cold cruelty. "Tell me, miss, how much do _you_ charge?"

My skin prickles with disgust. Does he mean to treat me like a whore? I struggle to reach my knife, but then remember I don't carry it to work. It might look suspicious, were my employers to discover it.

"Don't—touch me—" I try to spit in his face, but I miss.

"Tell me your name."

I reply with the most vulgar curse I can think of.

He smiles, and returns the favor, lowering his voice to assure me of what he plans to do to me, in unrepeatably crude language. It is enough to make even _me_ blush.

My whole body races with fear and the instinct to fight. I wait for an opportunity, and when the slightest one presents itself—he weakens his hold on my arm for an instant—I wrench one arm from his grip and, drawing back my elbow, I smash it into his jaw.

He swears, his hand going to touch the hurt. And then I repeat the move I made on him once before—slamming my boot heel into his most sensitive area. As he falls, I step back full four paces and call shakily, "I hope, sir, that I have not injured your brain by delivering too hard a kick to the place where you keep it."

And then I turn and run for the safety of the inn.

Roran is awake yet again, though it must be near midnight. When I enter, he stands up abruptly. "What kept you?"

"There was a celebration banquet tonight," I say shortly. "More work for the kitchen staff." I sit down and begin to unlace my boots in angry, jerky movements. The soldier's advances have put me in a towering rage—I'm so furious, I'm trembling with it.

"We need to be doing _more_," Roran says, beginning to pace. "You say Katrina is not in the dungeon for certain. I already checked out the city jail, but the guards told me that it's mainly a death row prison, and that anyone put there so long ago would no doubt have been executed by now. We didn't think of that, did we, Birgit? What if she's dead? And I'm still not convinced that the Ra'zac didn't lie. Why should it tell us the truth, anyway? We were about to kill it. What if they ate her along with Sloan? She could have been dead all this time, and I—"

"Shut up!" I shout, and throw my boot at him. He dodges it, and it hits the wall with a thud. I stand up, feeling wild-eyed and hysterical. "Gods, Roran, you disgust me! You're the one that wanted to go on this trip anyway. I don't know why I ever helped you. All you ever do is mope and whine about her!"

"And all _you_ ever do is make snide remarks and teach me to doubt!" he retorts.

That stung. "If you want to do something, go ahead, rush into battle with your hammer held high," I snarl. "But don't come crying to me when your thoughtless so-called tactics get you killed or captured! I'm trying to do this the smart way, but obviously you have a problem with that."

"This isn't the smart way! This is the way that's getting us nowhere! You have to realize that, Birgit. How long have we been traveling? A month? More? And we're no closer than when we started."

"You need to be _patient_," I say.

"_You_ need to get off your domestic backside and _do something_!" He steps closer, until he's yelling right in my face.

I stand my ground and yell right back. "I beg your pardon! I'm working my fingers to the bone for you! I infiltrated the castle itself for you. It's not my fault the trail went cold!"

"If we had done this my way, we would have found her by now!"

"If we had done this your way, I would be safe in Aberon by now, and you would be dead, and Eragon would probably still be in the Ra'zac's dungeon!"

He knows I'm right, and he can't stand it. "I hate you," he growls.

"I hate _you!_"

We stare at each other, his face inches from mine. The tension between us is almost tangible—I can almost feel sparks snapping in the space where our eyes meet. I'm so angry I could kill him, honestly, just put my fingers around his neck and squeeze—

But then he takes me by the shoulders, his hands landing with a zap of pain on the developing bruises the soldier's hands left. And instead of shaking me, or hitting me, he pulls me closer—so dangerously close that we're breathing the same hot breath.

I feel the sparks snap on his mouth when I press mine to his.

My arms, of their own accord, move to crush his body to mine. I'm terrified of what I'm doing, but I'm _aware_ of it—I don't lose rational thought because of his closeness. My whole being is alive with the terror and glory of holding him, touching him, tracing his lips with my tongue. I have _never_ felt this consuming passion before, not for anyone. It was never something I sought. But now that I've realized it, I'm not living without it.

He tries to pull back, no doubt to protest that he ought not to be unfaithful to Katrina, but I don't let him. Each time he tries to speak, I silence him with a burning kiss. And finally, he falls silent.

That's when there's a knock on the door.

We spring away from each other, utterly disoriented. I grab my knife and say, "Well, answer it—!" concealing the weapon behind my back. He puts his eye patch back on, straightens his shirt, and opens the door.

It's the innkeeper. "We have heard complaints that you've been making too much noise," says the man.

"I'm very sorry, sir," says Roran. He sounds rather drunk. "It won't continue."

He shuts the door and turns back to me.

"What. The. Hell. Was. That."

Dizzily, I answer, "I think I just kissed you."

I sit down heavily on the bed. The truth of this is beginning to sink in. I _kissed_ Roran Stronghammer. Kissed him like a lover. And it was the most glorious moment of my entire life.

"I think," Roran says, calm and deliberate, "that I will sleep on the floor tonight."

"Yes," I murmur. "I think you had better."

I take off my other boot and slip under the sheets fully dressed. The racing of my heart is beginning to subside, leaving me shaky and unsteady. I stare at the ceiling long after Roran puts out the candle, and I think about what has changed between us.

Sometime in the early morning, just before I sink into an exhausted sleep, I realize something important. It doesn't matter if we find Katrina or not. I won't let her have Roran now. Not when I know what he can make me feel.

He's mine now. Coppercurls can't have him back.

*******

The following morning, I'm dead tired, but determined to go back to work. Roran is still sleeping when I slip out of the room and lock the door. I suppose he didn't sleep any better than I did.

I try to hide my yawns as I wait in the carrier's line. Lisel whispers, "Don't worry, Robin, I'm tired too. They kept us up almost _all night_. Awful, isn't it?"

"Mm-hmm." I'm too tired to talk.

Right as I get to the front of the line, Lord Murtagh's maidservant rushes in and demands breakfast for him and his lady. The tray is brought right away—Lord Murtagh is a priority courtier, and one has to climb seven staircases to get to his rooms. I groan inwardly.

I take the stairs slowly, wary of tripping. Dropping a tray is bad—it gets you slapped and chastised, and you have to face the censure of all the carriers when you return for a fresh tray.

As I climb, I wonder what sort of person Lord Murtagh is. He's a Dragon Rider too, as gossip has it—his dragon is supposedly crimson red. I wonder if he's cruel and charming like Galbatorix, or young, clumsy, and proud like Eragon.

Finally, I reach the seventh landing and, pausing to catch my breath, I head down the corridor to Murtagh's door.

The lord himself answers my knock. He is handsome and younger than I thought he would be. He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Thank you," he says. "You can put the tray on the table over there."

For having suffered painful wounds in a battle only a few days previous, he seems in remarkably good health, relaxed and cheerful. I think about what I heard Galbatorix saying and wonder if his lady had anything to do with it.

He stands back to let me in, and I take a few steps into the room. That's when his lady says, "Murtagh, did she remember to bring butter?" and I look over to the four-poster bed and meet her eyes.

Murtagh's infamous lady is a pretty girl of about seventeen with bright coppery-red hair, propped against his pillows, wearing only the bedsheets.

Murtagh's lady is _Katrina_.

"Dear holy gods," I swear aloud.

And then I drop the breakfast tray.


	9. Chapter 9

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 9__._

[_Birgit_. In Murtagh's room.]

Lord Murtagh swears and jumps back, but half the tea still splashes on his pants. The floor is a mess of strawberry preserves, sugar, and buttered toast.

I try to stammer an apology, tearing my eyes from Katrina. But the second I look away, I doubt what I've seen and have to look back. I rub my eyes. It's _definitely_ her.

Murtagh's temper is quickly turning foul, though, and forces my attention to him as he draws back his hand to strike me. "Clumsy wench," he snaps. "There wasn't even anything there for you to trip on!"

"I'm very sorry, my lord," I mutter, my eyes on the floor as I steel myself for the slap. "It was very heavy, and I was just…surprised."

"Surprised at what?" he demands ominously. I expect the blow to fall any second.

"Wait! Murtagh, don't hit her!"

I raise my head a little. Katrina is sliding out of bed, naked as the day she was born. She pulls on a silky robe that doesn't cover as much as it ought to and comes over to us.

"Birgit?" she says uncertainly. "Birgit Mardrasdaughter?"

I meet her eyes, dropping all pretense of humility. "Katrina Ismirasdaughter. This is the _last_ place I expected to find you."

Murtagh's hand falls limp at his side. "Trina, do you know this woman?"

_Trina?!_

"Of course I know her," Katrina says, sounding bewildered. "Birgit's from Carvahall, my home village." She smiles at me. "How is Carvahall, Birgit? How's Nolfavrell? I never did get to tell you how sorry I am about Quimby, by the way." Her voice grows soft. "Is Roran well?"

Lord Murtagh coughs. I look at him, and over Katrina's shoulder he draws his finger across his throat. _She doesn't know_, he mouths.

So he's been keeping her in the dark about our fate. Real healthy relationship they have.

I kneel and began scooping the spilled items back on the tray so that I don't have to meet her eyes as I lie. "They're all fine. And thanks for your condolences."

"Why are you here in Uru'baen?" she asks curiously.

"Uh…." I use the corner of my apron to wipe up the spilled milk and furiously rack my brains for a decent lie. "Uh, well, I got sick of everyone treating me like a poor young widow, so I left the village. Always wanted to try city life. Now, I'd better take this stuff back to the kitchen and get you a clean tray…."

"Wait, Birgit." Katrina kneels down, the filmy robe puddling around her and gaping open in places that would have been embarrassing had I not bathed her as a child. "What about Roran?" she asks again. "Is he—was he very upset when I left?"

"I've got to go," I insist. As I push past Lord Murtagh, I see that he is looking positively murderous. My sudden appearance is _not_ welcome, and neither is the news he knows I carry about Carvahall, Roran, and all the villagers Katrina grew up with.

I practically sprint down the stairs, and the second I get into the kitchen, I shove the ruined tray at the dishwashers and pull off my apron.

"I have to leave," I tell the steward.

"You won't get your wages for today," he warns.

"Hellfire take my wages!" I stuff my arms into my coat and run for the exit.

I don't stop running until I reach the inn. Roran is shaving when I burst in; he jumps and swears. "You made me cut myself!" He puts down the razor and dabs at the nick with his sleeve. "What's gotten into you, Birgit? Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Roran," I say, and then stop. What to tell him? The truth, that I found his Coppercurls naked in another man's bed? The half-truth, that I found her? Or should I lie and tell him I discovered she's imprisoned in Gil'ead?

I don't want him to go back to her. But I don't want to break his heart, either, and if I tell him the truth, I will.

"What's wrong?" He stands up. "You look awful."

I don't doubt it. I'm winded and sweaty, not to mention exhausted from my sleepless night, and the words on the tip of my tongue might very well change my life. But which words will be for good, and which for bad?

"Roran, I have to tell you—"

I have no idea what I'm about to say. Perhaps it's a good thing, then, that I'm interrupted by four Imperial soldiers, who slam through the door and announce, "Birgit Mardrasdaughter, in the King's name, you are under arrest."

"Take her husband too," says one of them.

I meet Roran's eyes. He has suddenly gone cold and hard. I notice his hands move and look down in time to see him twisting the enspelled ring Eragon gave him.

_I'm so sorry_, I mouth.

And then they take me by the arms and march me out, with Roran right behind me.

*******

[_Roran_. Uru'baen Castle.]

Damn Birgit and her indiscretion! How has she given us away? I'm longing to shout at her, but there's no opportunity as we're marched through the streets toward the castle.

I fully expect to be taken to a dungeon, or worse, to the King himself. But to my surprise, we're shown into the castle garden instead. Once the gate is closed, the soldiers release us. There is obviously no way to escape, so I stand stiffly beside Birgit, waiting.

After a few minutes, a man and woman enter the garden. The man I don't recognize; he's not much older than me, dark-haired and clean-shaven. He's good-looking, but in a hard, cruel way. And for some reason, he reminds me of Eragon.

The woman, though….

My stomach drops out. Dear gods. It's _her_. It's finally her. She looks radiant, not at all like a prisoner. She's wearing a fine gown of rich purple; her hair is held back with a bejeweled headband and pinned up at the back. She has her hand on the man's arm.

_Katrina!_

I can't stand it. I rush forward and take her in my arms.

She gasps and goes rigid against me. Distantly, I hear the man asking, "Who's this?" in an annoyed tone. But I don't care. I crush her closer, murmuring, "Katrina, it's me. I've finally come for you."

My hands slide down her arms to tangle in hers, but she shrugs away, staring at me with a surprise that borders on…well, _horror_.

That stupid soldier is saying, "Lord Murtagh, as you requested, we captured Birgit Mardrasdaughter, alias Robin. We also captured this man, whom she alleges is her husband Cadoc."

Katrina whispers, "_Roran_."

"My love, I—"

She bursts, shockingly, into tears. Picking up her voluminous skirts with one hand and covering her face with the other, she runs away from me.

"Katrina? Katrina, come back!"

Then her companion has me by the collar. "So you're Roran," he growls.

I swallow hard. At this point, it's futile to deny it.

"Seen your fool cousin lately?"

My hand twitches involuntarily. The ring on it feels heavy, and I wonder if Eragon is already on his way. He'd better be. I bailed his worthless skin out in the Ra'zac's den; it's his turn to do the saving.

"Who're you?" I choke.

"I am Murtagh Morzansson," says the man, "Rider of Thorn. And if you ever embrace my wife again, I will _rip your throat out_."

He lets go of my collar, and I collapse to the ground, dumbstruck.

*******

[_Birgit_. The castle garden.]

"I will rip your throat out," Murtagh threatens, looking as if he means it. If Roran's face is any indication, the feeling's mutual.

The two of them are obviously about to have some kind of manly battle over Katrina, and I really don't care to watch. Seeing him hug her was bad enough.

So I follow Katrina. She's never been the best conversationalist, and I'm willing to wager she's ten times worse when she's all weepy, but I'm still rather curious—why has she gone and married Murtagh after that dramatic courtship with Roran? Surely she knew he was bound to show up eventually.

I find her in another part of the garden, sitting prettily on the edge of a fountain as she sniffles into a handkerchief. One of the soldiers is guarding her. The one tailing me goes to join him as I sit down next to her.

"So you married Lord Murtagh," I say.

She looks up, teary-eyed, and nods.

I notice the way her gown is pulled tight against her abdomen, and suddenly the bump I failed to notice earlier is clearly evident. "Ah. I was going to ask why, but now I think I can guess."

"Wha—_oh_." Katrina blushes and rearranges her skirts so that the swelling is less obvious. "You must think I'm a complete whore," she says, whispering the last word with a horrified inflection.

I fold my arms. "Well, to be honest, yes."

She hangs her head and sniffles some more.

"Do you love Lord Murtagh?" I ask after a pause. "Or is it his power and title that you love?"

"I do love him," she says earnestly. "He—oh, Birgit, he's so _sad_. He's spent his whole life being controlled and ordered around by other people—he's never had anyone to really love him before."

So she was a sucker for the tortured-soul-needing-a-woman's-love act. Nice.

"What about Roran?" I ask. "Did you ever think what this is going to do to him? Because believe me, it isn't going to be pretty. If I don't interfere it'll probably end in suicide."

"That's just it," Katrina wails. "I love him _too_. And…I'm not really sure that the baby isn't his…."

_That_ makes my eyebrows go up. "What?"

"When we were staying at Horst's house, the night we were taken, I…sneaked into his room." Her cheeks turn deeply pink, and suddenly I have an urge to rip those stupid copper curls right out of her scalp.

"So you slept with him once, then you got captured and hopped into Lord Murtagh's bed?" I ask, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

She looks at me with big watery eyes. I swear the girl looks exactly like the stupid rabbit Nolfavrell kept in a hutch for a month when he was seven. After he got bored of it, we killed and ate it.

"Not exactly," she says. "Murtagh…he rescued me from the dungeon. I was so scared, because of those horrid Ra'zac things, and the floor was so hard, and then _he_ was there, offering to take me to a better room." She sighs. "He took care of me for a week without ever laying a hand on me. And then one night it just…happened. We were together for _months_ before he asked if he could make me an honest woman…and by then I'd nearly forgotten about Roran, so I agreed."

I think, _If Roran kissed her the way he kissed me last night, she wouldn't've forgotten_. My cheeks feel a little hot, and I push the thought away.

"Plus, you know, by then I had noticed the…." She puts her hand to her abdomen. "Well, I was sick an awful lot. I thought the food was too rich, but then a maid suggested I might be…and then it made sense…."

I try not to roll my eyes at her inability to say the word _pregnant_.

"What are you and Roran doing here?" Katrina asks, blowing her nose. "I could tell you were lying earlier."

I look around, but Murtagh's not listening (he's probably still growling death threats at Roran). So I take a deep breath and tell her the truth. "Katrina, Carvahall is…it's…_gone_."

She gasps and looks all maidenly, clutching her handkerchief with both hands. I tell her the shortest version of our story possible, but it still takes the better part of ten minutes to explain how we ended up here.

"What I don't understand," I add, "is how Eragon scried you and saw you in a dungeon cell. If what you told me is true, that was _months_ after Lord Murtagh rescued you." On our journey, Roran agonized endlessly about the image of his lover chained in prison—an image I now suspect to be false.

"Oh," Katrina says, and touches her necklace, a gold pendant shaped like a star and studded with diamonds. "Whenever I'm wearing this, no one can spy on me by magic. Murtagh told me the King himself placed the spell on it. Perhaps that's what fooled Eragon's magic."

That confirms my suspicions. I don't know much about magic, but from what I know of the King, I am sure he has enough power to add a spell of illusion to a charm meant to block scrying.

But with this knowledge, another suspicion grows: a suspicion that we are in the middle of a trap that's about to spring. Why else would Galbatorix have taken the trouble to place the illusion? Why else, for that matter, would he have had Katrina brought to the castle and allowed his pet Rider to marry her? If she was worthless to him, the Ra'zac would have eaten her. But after that big scandal in the village so long ago, it would have been clear to everyone—even soldiers sent to spy—that Katrina was important to Roran. My insides grow cold. Of _course_. Katrina is bait. I always suspected so. And now Galbatorix has Roran in his grasp. A wanted criminal on his own, certainly, but if Eragon were to hear that his cousin was captured, he would certainly rush in and save him….

And he is about to. Roran's ring, I remember, has a summoning spell on it, and I saw him activate it when we were being captured.

We're nothing but pawns, I realize, groaning. All of us. Katrina, me, Roran, even Murtagh. We're all pawns in Galbatorix's game, and he played us well. Now Eragon will fly in to save the day, and Galbatorix will kill him. The rebellion will crash without its powerful figurehead, and Alagaesia will suffer for another hundred years under the Traitor King's tyranny.

I put my face in my hands. My choice to help Roran was the sole reason he got this far. What if my choice to help him is the one that sealed this land's doom?

"Birgit? Are you all right?" Katrina is offering a handkerchief—a clean one, thankfully. "You're crying. I'm sorry if I brought up bad memories…you know, about Carvahall and your son and everything…."

"Quiet, you stupid girl," I say tartly, wiping my eyes. "Don't you see? There is more than Carvahall at stake here."

Just then, we hear the clash of swords, and a yell of pain. I'm on my feet before I even register that the voice is Roran's.

"Dear gods, they're dueling," I say, and rush down the path to where I left the two men. Katrina follows, her gasps of horror loud and theatrical.

When I dash around a corner and see Roran locking swords with Murtagh, I suddenly forget about the possible ruin of Alagaesia. I forget about Galbatorix's plot and the way he manipulated us all. I can only think of Roran and how much he's bleeding, and how Murtagh's obviously ten times stronger and is going to kill him in a second.

And then I stop thinking and begin to shout.

*******

[_Roran_. Dueling in the garden.]

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Birgit heading after Katrina. I'm glad she's going. For whatever reason, I really don't want her to hear me fighting for Katrina. But damn it, I plan to fight—to the death if necessary. I'm weaponless against Murtagh's red sword, and haven't an ounce of magic in my entire being to combat his Rider's power. But I have not sought Katrina all these months only to lose her to another man.

"Did she not tell you she was already betrothed?" I growl, baring my teeth.

"Oh, yes, that." Murtagh waves his hand. "She did, and mentioned that the two of you had already…consummated…as well. I didn't really care. And since your betrothal was witnessed by a group of fugitive criminals wanted by the Empire, it was all too easy to gloss over. The banns were posted all over the city for weeks. '_Lord Murtagh, Rider of Thorn, to wed Katrina Ismirasdaughter_.' If you wanted to stop it, all you had to do was stand up and say, 'I object'…but it's a bit too late now, isn't it?" Then he pauses and smirks. "Oh, wait, I forgot. You probably can't read, can you? No wonder you missed it."

"_Bastard_." I glance at the soldiers around us and wonder if they're on orders to run me through if I attack Murtagh.

I decide I don't care and punch him. He ducks, and the blow glances off his forehead. I expect him to return the attack, but he just steps out of my reach and folds his arms. "You're Eragon's cousin, aren't you?" he says. "The family resemblance is striking. Unlearned peasants foolish enough to pick a fight with the King…or in your case, his right-hand man. Garrowsson, if you fight me, you _will _lose."

"Why don't you put your fists where your mouth is?" I challenge.

"Fistfighting? Exactly what I'd expect from you, farmer boy." He draws his sword, confident in his success. "Marvin, lend this boy a sword. We'll see how well _his _skills match up to his temper."

One of the soldiers draws his sword and offers it to me hilt first, looking as if he's holding back laughter. They all seem assured of Murtagh's victory.

I test the sword's weight and stretch my scarred shoulder. Murtagh stands at ease, swinging his sword lazily and bringing it up to test the edge. He leans close and licks the flat of the blade. Its red tint gives the illusion that he is lapping blood from it and I shudder. Then I realize he is trying to intimidate me and square my shoulders, adjusting my stance.

It has been weeks since I practiced with Birgit. Though she began to show signs of being a decent opponent toward the latter part of our time together, she was never much of a test to my skills. I realize Murtagh is right to be confident. He could kill me easily if he wanted.

Realizing this, I say, "First blood wins." I have a chance, small though it is, to wound him; killing him would be harder.

Murtagh laughs. "Duels to the death not your style, farm boy? Very well." He settles into a ready stance.

"For Katrina," I whisper.

"For Katrina," Murtagh agrees.

And we duel.

Murtagh is lightning-fast, and the strength of his blows numb my hands. It's all I can do to block him, and I frantically step back, wondering if I will even have a chance to wound him if I'm this hard-pressed to keep him back.

I sense that, despite his strength, he's going easy on me; he's confident enough in his triumph that he's not even bothering to really _try_. For some reason, this enrages me further, and I attempt to attack. He blocks easily and, twisting away, executes some twirly maneuver and slices a long line in my shirtsleeve.

I cry out in pain and anger at my defeat. It's not bleeding very much, but it's definitely bleeding. He's drawn first blood. I've lost.

He grins. "Tough luck, Garrowsson."

I let out a roar of fury and swing at him one more time.

Just as he's swinging his red sword up to block, I hear Birgit's voice. "NO! Roran, STOP!" Katrina shrieks wordlessly at the same time.

I don't pause to glance at them, but Murtagh does. And there I see my opportunity; I twist my sword viciously and the blade contacts with his hand. He bellows in pain, blood suddenly fountaining out of nowhere. Sickened, I see a piece of flesh fall to the ground. I've cut off his right forefinger.

"MURTAGH!" Katrina shouts in horror, and now I look at her—her angelic face tearstained as she rushes toward us.

My mistake. As soon as I look away, Murtagh recovers from his pain long enough to lunge forward and stab me in the chest. And now Birgit's screaming, high and long. I've never heard her scream this way, not when Quimby died, not when she found Nolfavrell.

Murtagh yanks the sword out and tosses it on the ground, going down on one knee as he grips his wrist to slow the bleeding. My breath comes in short gasps. I don't register falling over, just staring at the blue sky as Birgit's hands press into my wound.

"Roran," she says, and her voice sounds like it's coming from far away. "Roran, don't die on me. I've got to get you out of here. Hang on a bit longer. Don't you _dare_ die, dammit!"

It sounds like she's crying. I blink, the world going in and out of focus. "Birgit?" I groan.

"Shut up," she commands. "Don't talk. Just live."

But it's important that she know. "I lost," I hear my voice rasp.

Then the pain is too much, and I sink into unconsciousness, clinging to her last words as if they were a lifeline:

"Of course you did, numbskull."


	10. Chapter 10

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 10_.

[_Roran_. Uru'baen castle.]

I come back to consciousness slowly, first aware that I'm comfortable, then aware that I shouldn't be. I ought to be writhing in pain right now. That chest wound…was it fatal? Am I dead? Is this what death is—soft pillows and darkness?

I open my eyes. I'm surrounded by heavy curtains the color of pine needles; as I turn my head, I realize I'm lying alone in a four-poster bed. And when I sit up, I find that I'm naked.

I remember the wound and my hand goes to my torso, feeling around for bandages or some sign that I was injured. But there is no wound. All I find is a slightly raised scar, completely healed over.

How long was I unconscious? I run my fingers along the scar again. It could have been _months_.

Stretching, I push back the covers and reach for the curtain. But no sooner have I pulled it back than I duck behind it again. Birgit's out there. I peek again. She's asleep in an armchair, her head tipped to the side and her mouth slightly open. Her hair's a mess, frazzling out of its usual pinned-up braids. There's blood on her skirt.

Very quietly, I put my feet to the floor and glance around the room for my clothes. They're folded on top of a clothes-chest at the foot of the bed. I yank on the pants quickly, but the shirt is ripped and stiff with dried blood. I put it aside and open the clothes-chest to find a different one, but it only contains moth-eaten ladies' underclothing.

"About time you woke up," Birgit says suddenly, and, startled, I let the lid of the chest slam down.

"You weren't exactly up and about," I mutter.

"It was a long day." She stands up and stretches. "Do you remember any of it?"

I shake my head. "I was only out for one day? I don't understand." My hand goes again to that little scar.

She goes to the window and draws the shade. Late morning sunshine filters through bars on the window. "The castle healer knows magic. He said some words and made a funny face and your wound healed, just like that."

"Why did—are we in the castle now?" I trip over all the questions I want to ask.

"Yes. In one of the guest chambers. We're prisoners." She gestures toward the door. "Locked. And bars in the window…as if we'd try to jump out. We're on the fifth floor."

I take a deep breath. "What exactly happened while I was out?"

She's now drawing back the curtains of the four-poster. "Well, Murtagh said some mumbo-jumbo and healed his finger, although he didn't use magic to stick it back on, which is what I would've done. Katrina was pretty hysterical by that time, so he took her off to their chambers so they could _recover_." Her tone implies that Murtagh and Katrina were probably planning to engage in an activity other than _recovering_. "After they were gone, the soldiers didn't really know what to do with us, but then this man showed up, I think he was a general or whatever they call the army leaders, and he had the healer with him. So the healer fixed you up, and then some of them helped me carry you. The general person took us up to this room and said we were guests of Galbatorix, and then he locked us in." She shrugs. "I put you to bed and then searched around for secret passages out of here because there wasn't anything else to do. There aren't any. So I went to sleep."

"So they're just going to keep us in here?" I look around the room. It's very dull—minimal furniture, though the few pieces in here are expensive. I can see why Birgit had to resort to searching for escape routes—there's honestly nothing else to do in here.

"I guess so." She sighs. "The question is, for how long?"

"Until we starve to death, maybe."

"Nah, they're feeding us," she says. "You missed dinner last night. My friend Lisel from the kitchen brought it."

"Then they unlock the door to bring food?"

"With armed guards standing just outside." She begins to make the bed. "I'm not eager to leave this place, to be honest. It may be dull, but things will only get worse when they decide to take us somewhere else."

"Like where?"

"Like the gallows, probably." She fluffs the pillows.

"Right." The fact that we were wanted criminals had slipped my mind. It was probably only because of Katrina that we were still alive and not in a dungeon.

_Katrina_. Yesterday's events flood back into my memory: she's married, to _Murtagh_, no less, and when I fought for her, I lost. She's his now. She can never return to me.

The thought _should_ cripple me with despair, but all I feel is numbness. And that absence of feeling is almost worse than misery or rage.

To distract myself, I say, "Was it you who took my clothes off?"

Birgit blushes a little. "You were covered in blood. I didn't want you griming up the sheets—I doubt they're planning to wash them for us." She glances at my expression and, although she colors further, says crisply, "Don't be silly. I promise you it was purely clinical. I had a son and a husband once—it's nothing I haven't seen before."

She's lying. Another memory returns: those kisses in our room, the night we fought. I can't quite suppress how much I liked it, guilty as the admission makes me; kissing Katrina was always safe, gentle, sweet, but kissing Birgit was something else entirely. It was like embracing fire. Her body pressed against mine like she wanted to become part of me…her lips teasing, inflaming, forcing a response…the scent of her, sweat and fear mixed with that light floral perfume she keeps in her bag. Remembering it threatens to arouse me, and I clear my throat and mind at once, sitting down on the clothes-chest so she doesn't notice.

What does this mean? That I love her? My first instinct is to scoff at the very idea. I think of Katrina—the girl I've loved since I was barely a man, the first girl I kissed, the only woman I've ever made love to. I think of my love for her, attempting to define it. And I realize it was always a wish to _protect_. She was so sweet and breakable, and her father was not always gentle with her. I wanted to save her from ever experiencing anything bad.

It's not the same with Birgit. She can take care of herself. Though she's a woman, she's nevertheless my equal—if I thought of her as anything less, she'd pummel me. And she always insists on being right at my side when we're fighting; she doesn't want to be protected.

She drives me half mad sometimes, using her sharp tongue and wit to tease me, hitting all the most sensitive spots. But she knows what I've been through—because she's been there too. She's lost her family, as have I. She walked from Carvahall to Narda right behind me, her feet as sore as mine. And when she could have easily gone to Surda and been safe, she chose to follow me and aid me in my search for Katrina.

What I feel for her is not protectiveness. It's kinship—a friendship so close I feel at times that she really _is_ my wife, as we have been pretending. After all, what is a wife but the companion of a man's life, his helpmeet in hard times? I realize now that, if we were parted, I would miss her acutely. I wouldn't feel _responsible_ for going to rescue her, like I did with Katrina. I would simply go after her because…because I want to be near her always.

_It's true_, I think with surprise. _I do love her_.

And that's quite without considering the physical sensations she's capable of igniting with those urgent kisses.

I put my face in my hands. Gods, what am I thinking? Am I so disloyal to Katrina that I'll take another lover as soon as she's out of my reach? Not to mention Birgit's nine years my senior, a widow whose dead son, at fourteen, was closer to my age than she is. I hate to think what the gossips of Carvahall would say.

But then, if we were back in Carvahall, I would never have gotten to know Birgit like I have. She would just be Quimby's widow to me, nothing more. It would have been natural for Katrina and me to marry. Birgit, of course, would never be expected to remarry; she'd probably end her days in her son's house, cared for by her grandchildren.

But now her son is dead, and I…I'm all she has left.

I remember her anguished scream when I was stabbed. _She loves me too_. Maybe she knew it before I even suspected.

"You're awfully quiet," Birgit remarks, interrupting my thoughts. I jump. "What are you thinking?"

I take a breath to tell her—but the lock of the door rattles, and the confession dies on my tongue.

It's a girl bringing food, for which I'm extremely thankful. I've been asleep for a whole day and my belly is achingly empty. It's good food, too—I guess they used up all the stale bread and gruel on the dungeon prisoners.

I can't stop staring at Birgit, perplexed by my discovery. Nothing has changed between us, not really, but I can't help looking at her in a different light. At nearly thirty, she bears a sophisticated beauty that many women can't even claim in their youth. Her deep auburn hair is still free of silver, and the lines in the corners of her eyes only add to the character of her face. She's always been a handsome woman, but I've never bothered to see it.

Doubt coils like a serpent in my gut. What could she ever see in me? I'm barely in my twenties, little more than a boy to her. She's always telling me how foolish I am. She must think me such a child.

But she kissed me. Not as a mother kisses a son, but the way a woman kisses the man she loves.

"Roran," she says, looking over at me.

I start, but try not to show it. "What?"

"I need to tell you something." She pauses, and my heart hammers. Does she know what I've been thinking?

"When I spoke with Katrina yesterday, she said something that disturbed me." _Oh gods, what did Katrina tell her?_ "She said that the image you saw, of her chained in a dungeon, was an illusion spell cast by the King himself."

Oh. OH. Her thoughts are on another track entirely.

"Really?" I mumble. "I had wondered…." Now that I think of it, it's silly to suppose that Murtagh would have left his wife in prison just for the purpose of misleading Eragon's spells. But that vision in the bowl seemed so real…all this time I was convinced it was a true vision. A fool indeed.

"But you see, I doubt the King would have bothered—or for that matter, even kept her alive—unless he had a reason," Birgit goes on.

"You think we were meant to see the illusion and come here to rescue her?"

Birgit nods. "But not _me_. You and _Eragon_ were meant to come together. Of course, the Ra'zac messed that plan up, but it's still working out just how Galbatorix wanted. You summoned Eragon with that ring, didn't you? And now he's on his way…flying straight into the trap Galbatorix has been laying all along." She catches my gaze. "We were only ever just pawns in this game, Roran. All of us. Galbatorix used us to get Eragon here—where he can trap him and end the resistance with one easy execution."

I reach for my water cup; the food seems caught in my throat. It's my fault. I should never have used that ring. How could I have been so stupid? Uru'baen is the last place in the world Eragon should be. And Saphira trapped as well! She is a beast no one should presume to tame, yet Galbatorix doubtless means to make her into a mindless slave after he kills her Rider.

"What can we do to stop him?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Nothing, right now. We're locked in. We just have to wait for the opportunity to present itself. And if it never does, well, we'll die."

I wince. No one could ever accuse Birgit of sugarcoating the truth.

"Then I must also tell you something," I blurt out. For the second time I open my mouth to tell her I love her—

And we're interrupted again. What are the odds?

This time, the man who comes through the door is wearing a soldier's uniform. "On your feet," he barks. His voice is familiar.

"_Era_—?"

"Shaddup!" shouts the soldier. He strides over and grabs me by the collar, bringing his face close, and murmurs, "I'm getting you out of here. Don't blow it."

It _is_ Eragon. But he doesn't look like himself at all. He's taken on somebody else's face, probably by magic.

"Come with me," Eragon-the-soldier says loudly. "You too, woman."

Birgit huffs in resentment, but gets up and follows us.

Two more soldiers are waiting outside. One is unfamiliar, but the other one I recognize—it's the dark lady Nasuada, the leader of the Varden. She has hidden her hair under a helmet, but her face is too distinctive to mistake. _What is_ she _doing here?_

The unfamiliar soldier speaks with a woman's voice: "Hurry, Eragon. The sorceress felt my presence; we do not have long before we are discovered." Recognizing the slight accent, I squint at the soldier's face, trying to see the beautiful elf woman behind it. It is Eragon's ally Arya; she, too, has magically altered her appearance.

The three of them begin hustling Birgit and me along, occasionally muttering back and forth about escape routes being blocked. My back itches; I have a horrible feeling that we're being watched. We switch directions a few times to avoid being seen; finally, they spot a clear passage and lead us out into the soldiers' parade ground, a wide, blank space of land on one side of the castle.

"There is a gate just across there," Arya says, pointing. "Only two guards."

"Shall we be subtle or make a run for it?"

I cast my vote for running. The sense of being watched is becoming unbearable. Birgit argues for subterfuge. She _would_.

We decide on running for it. Arya senses some sorceress coming after us, and says we don't have time to be sneaky. So, with one last glance at the windows above us to check for sniping bowmen, we run.

We don't make it, of course. Not halfway across, we hear: _Thud. Thud. Thud_. Eragon swears. It's the sound of wingbeats.

The sun goes out, blotted by the crimson form of Murtagh's dragon. Its roar, echoing off the parade ground walls, is deafening; as I fall to my knees, pressing my palms to my ears, there's a blast of pressing heat and we are encircled in flame. The parade ground walls are edged in fire from the beast's throat.

"Going somewhere?" Murtagh calls. "Can't you even bid me farewell, cousin? _Brother_?"

_He's going to kill us_. Even as I think it, I reach for Birgit, intending to shield her with my body. Let me die first, at least—I selfishly don't want to watch her be killed.

To my surprise, she allows the embrace, clinging to me with such force that her fingernails dig into my bare skin (I never did find a shirt). Both of us are unarmed. Our survival depends on Eragon, Arya, and Nasuada—their magic and their swords.

The dragon roars again, executing some kind of complicated aerial turn, and a human form drops from its back to the ground, landing unharmed on his feet. Murtagh grins at us. "Hello, Eragon. It's been awhile."

"Murtagh," Eragon says between clenched teeth, his knuckles whitening as he grips his drawn sword.

Murtagh draws his own sword. I notice that his right hand is gloved now, to hide his new deformity. It gives me a moment of vicious pleasure.

The two Dragon Riders clash. They're evenly matched, in both skill and power, and the two warrior-women stand tense in dread of the outcome. I keep my arms tight around Birgit. Unarmed and half-naked, I have only her touch and her courage as a shield from the sick fear in my stomach.

"I love you," I whisper, but it's lost in the clanging of metal against metal.

"Look," Birgit says, pointing to the sky. "Saphira's coming! And—oh, dear gods—look—"

Saphira isn't alone. With her is a dragon about half her size, glowing bright emerald. The egg they found in the Ra'zac's nest—it hatched! I turn to look at the two women, Nasuada and Arya. Which one of them hatched it? Likely the elf; Nasuada, though fierce and strong, is only a human.

But I am wrong, because when the dragon lands, it is Nasuada who hurries to its side, stroking its scales affectionately. How curious.

The dragon takes to the skies again, joining Saphira in an aerial battle against Murtagh's red beast. At first I wonder if it's wise to allow such a young dragon to fight, but I soon see that the green can hold its own—its size makes it less of a target than the much larger Saphira, and it darts around the red like a minnow around a turtle, nipping and distracting so that Saphira has an extra edge.

On the ground, meanwhile, Eragon and Murtagh are still battling with furious energy. It's a battle that could easily go on forever.

However, it doesn't—because Murtagh receives reinforcements.

Not from soldiers or that sorceress, however; they can't get in through the wall of fire. No, it is a great black dragon who brings the last and most powerful fighter: Galbatorix himself. Black Shruikan swoops low, darkening the whole sky and making everyone duck—and when we look up, Galbatorix is standing next to Murtagh.

"Kill Roran and the women," he commands. His voice is pleasant and smooth, but his words are fear and death. "I will deal with the Shadeslayer."

Murtagh obeys and advances toward us. Arya and Nasuada block his way, swords at the ready, and they commence fighting. I pull Birgit away from them, hating my helplessness.

The warrior-women are easily able to hold Murtagh off, but my attention is on Eragon and Galbatorix. Despite his skill, Eragon is being beaten, and badly.

Above, Shruikan is ripping at Saphira, who's roaring in pain. The green dragon is pathetically outmatched against the red; it's starting to tire, and despite its speed, it is perilously close to being batted out of the sky by Murtagh's companion.

Eragon screams and holds his head, his sword falling. Galbatorix laughs and levels his sword at Eragon's neck. I let out a shout of futile warning and steel myself for the worst. We have lost.

Then Birgit lets go of me and, her teeth bared wildly, screams, "_Get out of his head!_"

Her voice is so forceful that I hear it both in my ears and in my mind—and at the sound of it, Galbatorix cries out, his sword wavering, and collapses to the ground.


	11. Chapter 11

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 11_.

[_Birgit_. The Final Battle.]

The second Eragon clashes swords with Galbatorix, I _feel_ it. A numbing vibration in mind and body—the meeting of two unstoppable forces, physically and mentally.

The reality of Roran's arms around me is my only tenuous hold to reality. My vision blacks out, taking my sense of self with it. I am the crackling flow of raw power between Eragon and Galbatorix—all of their will and bodily strength is pouring into me as they throw it at each other. I am balanced. Dark and light, shadow and fire, blue and black, hope and desperation. I am—

Galbatorix's side suddenly surges and overcomes Eragon's. Blue-fire-light-hope flickers and shrinks. I feel Galbatorix cruelly search Eragon's thoughts and memories, poisoning them, turning them as black as his own….

Someone shouts, "Get out of his head!" (is it me?) and the balance seesaws abruptly the other way.

Now I'm no longer a passive observer standing on the middle ground. I'm _in_ Galbatorix's head. I'm a part of him—I'm—

_Incredulous, I look at the silver patch on my palm. "She chose me?" I ask softly._

_I send my clumsy friend's practice sword flying through the air. He shakes his head ruefully—"Once in awhile, Tor, would you just let me win?"_

_I watch Brom and Morzan sitting at the feet of their teacher Oromis, and I wonder why they're wasting their time with an old man. That's where we're different. I'm young and powerful and willing to break the rules._

_As we're terrorizing the Urgal village, killing them off for sport, three black-fletched arrows find their mark. Her last words:_ Galbatorix, I love you.

"GET OUT!" Galbatorix howls. _No one has ever violated my mind—never—never_—

Roran, supporting my sagging body, cries, "Birgit? Are you—"

_Hate. Hate, sorrow, pain. I cannot breathe with this gaping hole in my chest. Desperately I beg for another chance. They cast me out and call me mad._

_I do not ask again. I simply take—I and my sympathizers, my so-called friends, we take what is mine, what is ours. Our freedom. Our rights. A polished black egg, whose occupant only fills a small portion of the emptiness…_

_Blood everywhere—shirt, hands, face, mouth. Morzan and Brom are fighting in the sky—their dragons, once friends, are ripping savagely at each other. Is this what I wanted?_

_I dress myself finely, put on a smiling face, and my Forsworn place a crown on my head. Shruikan, mind twisted and retarded from being under my control so long, simply drools behind me. I am King. I am _empty.

_They die one by one. Last of all my pet Shade is vanquished. My crown is all I have left, and these upstarts cannot take that from me as well_—

_Deep pain in my chest. I am fading, fading—I am Galbatorix—_

_I have lost._

***

[_Roran_. The Final Battle.]

It is the most disturbing thing I have ever witnessed.

Somehow, inadvertently, Birgit has gotten into Galbatorix's mind and is causing him extreme agony. But she's in pain too, her screams mirroring his as they grow louder. I support her limp body—the dampness of her dress makes it clear that she's lost control of it altogether.

Everyone on the fiery battlefield stops to stare at the writhing King. Eragon picks up his sword but seems unsure if he should use it on an unarmed foe. Murtagh turns away from the two women and takes a few steps toward the King, though whether to help him or harm him I don't know.

Briefly, Galbatorix fights back. Spittle flies from his mouth as he shrieks, "GET OUT!"

Birgit comes to her senses for a moment. I adjust my hold on her and try to ask if she's all right, but in a flash she's screaming again, and so is he.

This time, Murtagh does not hesitate. He strides forward and buries the red sword in Galbatorix's chest, once, twice, thrice. Galbatorix convulses—

And Birgit sighs, relaxes, and stops breathing.

"Oh no, oh no," I mutter, laying her down so I can check her heartbeat. It's dangerously faint. "Birgit, don't you do that. Make him let go of you! Come back—come—oh, Birgit—"

There's only one thing I can think of to bring her back. Perhaps it's a selfish impulse, a one-last-time thing, but I don't hesitate. I take her by the chin, tilt her head, and kiss her on the mouth.

She gasps, "_Oh!_" against my lips, and though her eyes stay closed and her limbs limp, her heart begins to beat again, and color returns to her cheeks as breath fills her lungs. She is alive. Alive and unconscious. _Thank the gods_.

As I'm fervently and silently offering prayers of thankfulness, Eragon, Nasuada, and Arya approach us. Murtagh is busy chopping off the King's head and setting fire to the remains, ostensibly ensuring that he will never, ever rise from the dead.

"What just happened?" Nasuada asks, her voice shaken.

"I think—I think she _became_ Galbatorix for a moment," I say, unsure whether to believe my own half-formed theories. "It hurt them both terribly. She almost died just now. I—I had to breathe life back into her." That would explain the kiss, which they surely saw—I don't want to tell them the truth about it, not yet.

"But how could she—I do not understand," Arya says, kneeling opposite me on Birgit's other side. "She is a human peasant woman, nothing more extraordinary. No magical training at all, I assume?" When I nod, she places her hand on Birgit's forehead and closes her eyes.

"Ah," she breathes at length, drawing her hand away. "I understand."

"What?" I ask. I have heard elves can look into a man's mind and see his entire soul. What has Arya seen?

She sits back on her heels. "I will reveal all later, Roran Stronghammer. For the present, we must get away from Uru'baen. Galbatorix's minions may try to avenge him." She stands. "Eragon, you and I will go on Saphira. Nasuada, if Eden is able to carry you, he now must. Murtagh…."

Murtagh spits. "I won't stay a minute longer in this place than it takes to collect my wife. Thorn can carry the woman—I'm indebted to her—but 'fraid Cousin Roran'll have to walk."

_I can carry three_, Saphira says, and it is decided. Birgit is strapped to red Thorn's belly; he and Murtagh fly off to find Katrina. I hate to see her go, but I know it's necessary; I climb up behind Arya and steel myself for the lurch of flight.

Though all dragons are overloaded, we don't stop until the flames of the city are far behind. Riots are breaking out in the Uru'baen streets, but as the news spreads to other cities, the hysteria will turn to celebration.

Alagaesia is free at last from the Traitor King's tyranny.

***

We camp that night in a little wood not far from some little town on the northeastern shore of Lake Tudosten. As the campfire flares, Eragon and Murtagh settle their differences by becoming cheerfully, stupidly drunk on wine Murtagh purchased from said town. Nasuada joins them in a few drinks (but doesn't even try to match them), and Katrina curls against Murtagh's side, laughing at their stupid jokes but not touching the drink herself.

Arya sits with me by Birgit's side. She still hasn't woken; Arya told me that magic drains a person of his or her energy, and Birgit will probably sleep soundly for some time.

"You can join your cousins, if you wish," the elf lady tells me. "I will keep good watch over Mistress Birgit."

Tempting though it is, I shake my head. "I want to be here when she wakes up."

It's hard to tell in the dim light, but I think Arya smiles.

"Tell me," I say after awhile, "what did you see in her mind? What happened back there that brought Galbatorix down so easily?"

Arya looks down at Birgit's calm profile. "I saw that this woman has a great deal of innate power, maybe close to what Galbatorix had before he became a Rider," she says. "But she has never learned to use it, so for the most part it has remained dormant. I imagine, however, that it has asserted itself from time to time in subtle ways… Birgit is accustomed to getting her own way, is she not? Very stubborn and strong-willed?"

"Oh yes," I assure her, nodding emphatically. She smiles again.

"I believe what happened during the battle can be explained thus: she was in a heightened state of emotion—most likely fear—and that power spilled out to help her protect herself and those she cared for." I look down under the elf's pointed stare. "It is a common enough occurrence, I believe, to have a sudden increase of strength in a moment of terror?"

"It happens," I say slowly. "Once Father drove a wagon over Baldor's leg, and when he realized what happened, he lifted up the entire wagon—loaded down with potatoes—to get him out."

Arya nods. "The same thing, more or less, happened with Birgit," she says. "Once she awakes, she will have to be trained to control herself—it was only pure luck that she did not die this time." She wrinkles her brow slightly. "The energy it would have taken to control Galbatorix's mind, even for a moment…I still cannot account for her survival. She ought to have been pulled into the void when he was."

"She almost was," I say softly. Was it my kiss that pulled her back, or the force of her own will? Could it have been both? Or neither?

The elf lady sees my expression and says, "I find myself in need of a walk to clear my head, Stronghammer. Can you look after Birgit on your own?"

"Aye." I watch her step, silent and sure-footed, into the night. She must know, or at least suspect, how it is between Birgit and me. Perhaps she saw it in Birgit's mind. It can't be so very obvious that she noticed on her own, can it?

I almost expect Birgit to open her eyes, reveal that she has been awake the entire time, and make some snide comment. But she doesn't. She just sleeps.

I sigh. What the hell. The others are too drunk to notice or care, so why not….

I lie down next to her, careful not to jostle her in her sleep, and put my head next to hers. I take her hand and shut the drunken revels out of my ears.

For one last night, I'll keep up the pretense that she is my wife. For one last night, she'll sleep by my side—and she'll probably clobber me in the morning.

***

[_Birgit_. The woods.]

I wake up slowly, not really wanting to be conscious yet. My body feels like it's one big bruise, and there's a heavy weight across my chest.

When I open my eyes, I find that the weight is Roran's arm. He has spread a blanket over both of us, and his warmth is welcome in the dewy morning cold. He is still sound asleep, snoring quietly, his mouth open a little and his beard wet with drool.

Gods help me, I love the man.

I sit up, stretching, and look around. Several paces away, there are four figures draped around a campfire. I recognize Murtagh and Katrina cuddling close, and Nasuada with her head on Eragon's midriff. There are a couple of empty wineskins littered between them. Through the trees I can see the colorful bulk of three dragons: red, blue, and green.

I try to remember how I got here, but everything is a blank. The last thing I remember is… fighting… flames… and… _being_ Galbatorix? That's silly—but the memory comes back sharper than ever. I was in him. I saw his memories through his eyes. I felt him _die_.

The stink of urine reaches my nose, and I realize, to my disgust, that my skirt—already bloodied and filthy—is the source of the smell. I must have wet myself while I was blacked out. How humiliating.

I look around for my belongings so that I can change, but all we seem to own between us are the wineskins and an open knapsack that contains only food. Sliding out from under the blanket and Roran's arm, I raise myself unsteadily to my feet and cast around for a body of water nearby to wash myself in.

A few minutes' walk, and I find myself on the shores of a great lake, glittering in the early morning light nearly to the horizon. There's no one around, hardly a fisherman in sight even at this hour, and so I happily strip my disgusting clothes off and wade in.

I examine the extent of the bruising clinically as the cold water numbs the pain. I've been banged up well and good, though it's nothing I won't recover from. What _happened_ to me while I was out?

I'm mercilessly scrubbing the filth from my clothes when someone says quietly, "May I join you?"

It's Roran. I shriek a little and bring my wet skirt up to cover myself. "What are you _doing_?" I ask sharply.

He is taking off his clothes, apparently. First boots, then socks, then shirt—_oh my_—and then pants. For a lady who so dislikes being stared at, I can't help doing a bit of staring myself.

"Arya told me where you were, and I thought I could use a bath too," he says calmly, as if nothing is amiss, wading in several yards away—far enough that I don't feel threatened, yet close enough that I'm acutely aware of being stark naked.

"Roran, what are you—?"

"Some things need to be said between us, Birgit," he says, not looking at me as he rinses his muscled arm. "You're nine years my senior, a widow and a mother, and an affair between us will…bother…some people. I want to know if you care enough to look past that."

I can hardly speak. My heart is racing so fast I think it may stop.

"For my part…." He looks up, and his eyes meet mine with a tender gaze I've not seen him wear since he spoke of Katrina on our journey. Only now, it's directed at me, only me. "For my part, Birgit, you have become dearer to me than I believed any woman ever could. You are my wife already in my soul, whether or not you wish to become my wife in act and law."

He has such a way with words, my Roran has. I know that any words I say now will come out garbled and stupid. So I speak with my actions instead.

Deliberately, I wade toward him, trying not to stumble on the muddy rocks beneath my toes. I move slowly as I take him in my arms, showing him how very much I mean it when I press my lips to his.

This time, the kiss is not born of anger, hate, or fear. It is purely tenderness, friendship, and love. And to my utter astonishment, it transcends our first kiss completely.

After a long while of kissing and exploration, Roran leads me out of the lake and lays me down, infinitely careful, in the tall grass on the shore. Then he shows me what it is to be a wife who loves her husband with all her heart, soul, and body.

***

In the glowing aftermath, while we are still kissing and whispering foolish things to each other, a miserably hung-over Eragon trips over us on his way to take a bath.

It figures.


	12. Chapter 12

**Revenge Is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)**

_Chapter 12__._

[_Epilogue_. One month later.]

The wedding was a quiet affair—neither Birgit nor Roran wanted to make a big deal about it, since several of their old "friends" had made it quite clear what they thought about their strange relationship. Only a select few attended: Birgit's aging parents, flown south on Saphira's back for the occasion; Horst, Elain, and baby Dana; Eragon, Saphira, Arya, and yes, Murtagh and Katrina. Katrina's pregnancy was starting to be clearly visible now; she wept throughout the whole wedding.

Of those who had first discovered Roran and Birgit's attachment that morning on the shores of Lake Tudosten, only Katrina and Eragon had reacted badly. Eragon, of course, claimed he was scarred for life, having seen them, quote, "rutting like rabbits in the grass." (Birgit had pointed out in an aside to Nasuada that Eragon was almost pathetically virginal, and maybe someone ought to do something about that. Nasuada, with a speculative look in Eragon's direction, had agreed that that might be best for everyone and filed the idea away for later use.) Katrina had cried inconsolably, to Murtagh's annoyance. Murtagh himself couldn't be happier that Roran had chosen a new lover—it meant he wouldn't have to risk any further limbs battling over his own wife.

Nasuada, watched over by her green dragon, officiated the ceremony, in her double power as Varden leader and Dragon Rider. The Varden were now a political party rather than a rebel army, and they had been relieved to shed their armor and put their efforts to more peaceful pursuits—like that of collecting candidates for the new King and setting up voting systems in all the major cities of Alagaesia's newly renamed Broddring Kingdom. Determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past, the Varden were ensuring that the Kingdom chose its own king this time around.

Birgit's mother spoke for her, offering as a dowry Quimby's life savings, recovered from the wreckage of their house in Carvahall. Nothing could be done about their homelessness, but at least they were not penniless.

Horst spoke for Roran, offering in return the promise of support and companionship since he had nothing else to give now. Birgit didn't care; she liked this promise better than the gift of four barrels of ale and a chicken that Quimby had given her parents when she married him.

Nasuada, smiling, tied their wrists together, and the two of them kissed. The green Rider had grown to like the pair of them immensely in the past month; both had been a great help with the Varden's mission to elect a king, and she had been watching them closely. Roran was a passionate and moving speaker, all about action and change; Birgit was subtler, often quieter in council meetings, but she had all the good ideas—she was smart, shrewd, and diplomatic when she had to be.

Nasuada had made up her mind. Tonight, she would ask them to run together as the Varden's own candidates for King and Queen.

And she was fairly sure that they would win.

***

[_Epilogue _cont'd. One year and six months later.]

Just before the coronation ceremony, soon-to-be King Roran Stronghammer had a sudden attack of cold feet.

"I can't do this," he muttered to his wife, listening to the crowd cheering outside and tugging uncomfortably on his overwrought coronation robes. "I can be a farmer, or a soldier, but a king?"

Birgit rolled her eyes. "How many times have we been over this?" she said, straightening his clothes for him. "You know the scholars traced your lineage back to old Palancar himself."

"Yes, and he was insane!"

"But you're not an inbred spoiled brat, like he was," she pointed out, "so stop acting like one." With a calculating gleam in her eye, she added, "If you don't behave, I'll use magic to make those tight britches go up your bum. I practiced the spell all day yesterday on unsuspecting passersby just in case I might need it today."

"You did _not_."

She folded her arms and focused her eyes on his backside. "_Oedjí_."

Roran yelped, doing a little dance on the spot. "Ow! Son of a—Birgit, make it stop!"

She laughed and said another word, releasing the spell. "Don't you think it's funny that there's a word in the Ancient Language for making someone's trousers get caught in his crack?" she asked conversationally. "Makes you wonder if the elves didn't used to be as stiff and boring as they are now…."

"_Birgit_."

"Now, what were you saying? Something about being scared?"

"Now I'm just annoyed," he said, picking at the seat of his trousers.

"Good," said Birgit, "the _oedjí_ made you forget." She took his arm and reached up to kiss his cheek. "It's time."

"If we do this ceremony, there's no going back," he murmured. "We'll be responsible for the whole of the Kingdom as long as we live."

Birgit said, "We've already narrowly avoided being responsible for its downfall. I think we owe it to the people of the Kingdom to ensure they stay safe and free as long as we can."

As usual, she was right.

"Besides," she added, "if we don't take over some of the responsibilities, Nasuada'll never leave on that quest of hers—and that means we'll never get rid of Eragon."

They both laughed, and then, posture straight and heads held high, the two of them entered the throne room.

***

[_Epilogue _cont'd. Thirteen years later.]

A girl with auburn hair, just entering the awkward stage of adolescence, ran haphazardly through the sunlit halls of Castle Ilirea, her skirts clutched in one hand.

"Whoa, whoa—" her father paused her in her heedless dash. "Where are you off to so fast, birdy?"

"Tor said he would take me for a ride on Loivissa!"

Roran's face darkened—"You mean Tornac Murtaghsson?"

"_Please_ let me, Father," Robin Birgitsdaughter begged. "Lena's been up five times and hasn't been hurt at all! She says her brother's a really good flyer and Vissa is perfectly safe."

"Well, all right," King Roran said finally. "But tell that boy to be careful."

He watched his daughter run off, then sought out his wife to tell her.

"She's too young for him," Birgit said, leaning on the windowsill to watch Tor help Robin onto the back of his indigo dragon. "He won't pursue her. I hear he's quite taken with Dana Elainsdaughter, anyway."

"She spends far too much time with that hellion Selena," Roran argued. "When she starts to fill out, he's going to notice."

"Then I'll intervene before she gets too attached," Birgit said calmly. "Don't worry, Roran. While I live and breathe, Robin will never accidentally fall for her own half-brother."

**END**


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